


Never Hurts

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas AU, Christmas Fluff, Cunnilingus, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on the following prompt: “we’re co workers who hate each other but you had too much to drink at the staff christmas party and admitted your love for me I don’t know how to act around you now”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Bloody hell!" Killian Jones wraps his right arm a little tighter around the woman's waist. Her dead weight almost makes him stumble when her knees give in. "Just set one foot in front of the other, will you?!"

But it's useless; Emma Swan is punch-drunk. When they leave the office building, the December cold hits them like a thousand needles, and the slender blonde starts to shake against him violently which adds to the insecurity of her steps. "Wonderful," he grumbles and grips her a little more firmly, half leading, half dragging her across the parking lot towards his car. He props her up against the side of the car while unlocking the passenger door. But she doesn't hold up well and starts to slide to the side, and Killian rolls his eyes. Quickly, he yanks the door open and pushes her inside not all too gently. She whines in protest, and he slams the door with an angry huff.

"Why me?!" he growls.

He's asked Dave the same question when he asked him to see her safely home after she'd shot her lights out completely at the staff Christmas party – David Nolan, his employer, best friend and also Emma Swan's half brother.

“Because you’re not drunk and because you’re the only one I trust,” was the sincere, flattering answer. Well, this was great. Of course, there was no other option than to give in to his friend's request, although he'd rather be anywhere else than here with this woman in his car now.

It's not that he doesn't like her; actually, the problem is that he does like her. She's the one that seems to despise him, and he doesn't even know why. Since he came to work in her brother's marketing company, she's kept side-eyeing him with hostile looks. He's tried a few times to talk to her, open a light conversation – flirty, yes, but always in a polite and respectful way; he believes in good form, after all. Alas, she's shot him down in the most vitriolic way that has nothing to do with bantering. After the third time that happened, he's given up. He has some self-protection instincts, thank you very much. And even if he can see there's something beyond that rash mask of hers, a vulnerability and forlornness, obviously he's not meant to be the one to uncover it, to bring her walls down. So, he's keeping his distance, watches her from afar – and notices with a certain grudge that, obviously, she doesn't put on that rash mask for others. She's far from being a wallflower – she's actually a good flirt. With everybody else, it seems. For him, she seems to have only contempt. Well, that's that for him – he's been bruised often enough to know better than to chase after someone who clearly detests him. So, he doesn't. It's not like he's interested in chasing women in general anyway, although he likes to flirt; he's come from London to Boston only six months ago, and he's glad to have settled in – he doesn't need any trouble or uproar in his life: one more reason to steer clear of Emma Swan, her soft blonde curls and mysterious green eyes. Thankfully, they don't work in the same department and can easily keep out of each other's hair. Until now.

Now, he's stuck with her, thanks to David. He throws her a sideways glance and sees that she's slumped in the passenger's seat in a hazardous way, threatening to fall over into his lap. Well, just what he needs. He puts his right hand to her shoulder and pushes her into an upright position. Eyes squeezed shut, she makes a complaining noise again. Killian huffs and starts the engine.

“If you vomit in my car, you’re gonna sleep in it,” he tells her curtly. 

She shifts a little in her seat, trying to find a comfortable position. “‘Sokay…” she mumbles, and her voice sounds raspy, “‘slong’syouw’me.” 

He turns to face her. “What?” he asks sharply, but a snore is his only answer.

After a short drive in welcome silence that gives him space to dwell in his grumpy thoughts, they reach her apartment building. He parks the car in front of it and fishes in the pockets of his coat for the spare keys to her apartment Dave gave him earlier. Turns out the task of unlocking her door isn't easy with her hanging onto his left arm, shaking with cold and trying to sneak under his coat in search for warmth. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close into his body, because it's easier to steady her like this. For a fleeting moment, Killian allows himself the luxury of imagining them like this in a completely different scenario, but quickly he shakes the thought off. Utopia has never been good for anyone. It's better to put some space between them, because right now she's pressing her face into the side of his throat, her cold nose rubbing across his scruff, and murmurs with rattling teeth against his skin: "Yasmells'good..."

"And you smell like a barfly," he growls and finally manages to push the door open and guide her inside. She disappears into the dark depths of the apartment while he carefully enters and fumbles for the light switch. A dull thump announces she obviously knocked something over, and he swears under his breath. Hopefully she doesn't hurt herself, or else David will have his arse. Killian manages to turn on the lights just when his phone starts to buzz. Carefully clicking the door shut behind him, he grabs the phone and sees it's David. He rolls his eyes and answers.

“Did you get her safely home?” his best friend asks with a slight slur in his voice.

“Of course I did," he replies grumpily. "We just got to her place. You owe me one, mate.”

David sighs. “Listen, Killian, I know you don’t like her, but…”

Killian holds up his hand as if his friend could see him gesticulating. “It’s not that I don’t like her," he interrupts. "I don’t like how she treats me. She’s the one who hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” David contradicts.

Killian hears more muffled sounds and a distant murmuring and looks around to get orientation in this unknown apartment. “She sure makes a big point of proving that she does,” he replies dryly, his eye scanning the semi-darkness.

“Look, she’s not as bitchy as she seems," David continues in a placating voice. "Actually, she’s the sweetest, most compassionate girl you can imagine.”

Killian snorts. “She’s your sister, of course you say that. But sweet is not exactly the word that springs to mind.”

“She’s just closed off. She’s been bruised badly in the past, and I guess she’s just guarded with guys,” his mate tries to explain. Killian knows – or is sure – the first part is true. The second one... well, she surely doesn't act with others like she's guarded.

“Not with everybody," he replies. "She’s a big flirt with Graham and Augie.” Killian has never been the one to shy away from painful truths, and he knows that David isn't blind.

His friend sighs again. “I know that… I don't know, Killian. Maybe you trigger something for her. Or..." Thoughtful silence stretches, and Killian frowns; also, because he can't hear any noises from the living room.

"Or?" he prompts and is a little confused to hear David chuckle.

"Or she really likes you."

Killian huffs. "Oh please, mate, you're too drunk for your own good." He scratches behind his ear. "If looks could kill, I'd have died a hundred painful deaths by now." 

"You're a drama queen," David teases. "Anyway, thank you for your help.”

“I did it for you, mate. See you Monday.” Quickly, he hangs up and walks carefully from the hallway into the dim-lit living room.

He has fulfilled his duty and kept his promise to Dave, he could calmly go home now. But he just wants to check on Emma once more before he leaves, because bloody hell, if she gets sick now she could choke on her own vomit. He half expects to find her crawling across the floor to her bedroom, but he finds her slender frame slumped down on the couch, passed out, her coat discarded on the floor. Her head rests on the backrest, her hair a little wild. No vomit, thank God. She snores lightly. He's standing in front of her, looking down at her sleeping figure, his jaw set tightly and his arms folded. Even now, with her skin paler than usual and her coral lipstick and mascara a little smudged, she looks breathtakingly beautiful. 

“Swan," he says tentatively. "Wake up. Go to bed.” As he feared, she shows no reaction. “Swan.” But she's literally dead to the world; not even her eyelids flutter. Killian rolls his eyes and slumps down beside her, the sudden movement shaking her body a little. “Way to spend a Friday night,” he grumbles to himself, curls his fingers around her bare upper arm (no wonder she was freezing in that flimsy little black dress) and shakes her none-too-gently. “Bloody hell. Wake up!”

Emma stirs a little in her slumber and mumbles something unintelligible; a lock of her disheveled hair falls over her face, and suddenly, with her features soft and relaxed, no flaring anger sparking from her eyes, she looks very young and innocent and vulnerable... and damn, why does she have to look like that? Unexpectedly, he feels a string of tenderness tug at his heart, and he remembers why he felt attracted to her in the first place. Stripped bare of all her tough-lass attitude, she looks like the untold tale of his dreams, fair and lean, headstrong and gentle of heart, and he feels the urge to protect her from all evil and harm. 

Gently, he brushes a wayward strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, and murmurs softly: “Emma.”

“Killian?” she slurs. “‘Sdatyou?”

“Aye,” he replies and turns to her to check if she’s drifting into consciousness at least long enough so that he can get her to her bedroom. “Come on, I’ll…”

“‘Sgood,” she mumbles and laces her right arm through his left, her other hand blindly fumbling for the lapels of his vest. “Closer.”

Well, this is awkward. “No, wait a mo--”

“Hmmhmm,” she hums and slips her left hand underneath his vest and around his torso, resting it warmly (and almost possessively?) against the side of his ribcage. “‘Sbedder.” She snuggles close into his side nestling her head against his upper arm. Wonderful. This is not what he signed up for, this was supposed to be a quick in, drop her off and out. Why the hell is she so cuddly? Even if she's not really in control of herself or really conscious, she seems to know she's with him. She's never shown anything but contempt towards him, so what in blazes is happening here? David's voice echoes in his head: Or she really likes you... He shakes his head to himself and looks down at her. He can see only a part of her face, but she seems to smile in her slumber. “Killian,” she sighs in a voice that sounds contented somehow, and not like she expects an answer.

“What?” he grumbles and she murmurs something unintelligible in response.

He's had enough. This is too confusing, too much, too close. Carefully, he tries to manoeuvre his arm out of hers, but she grasps him only tighter and sort of whines in protest. “Don'go'way.” 

“Bloody hell, Dave,” he growls, “you shall pay for this.” If Killian Jones hates one thing, then it's being in a situation where control is taken away from him or where he can't internally distance himself from. And he is getting the vague feeling that this is far beyond his control. Emma's answer is more unintelligible murmuring, and he feels her fingers curl against his side through the fabric of his shirt; she's obviously determined not to let him go.

“I have to go,” he utters in frustration, more to himself than to her, because she can't hear him anyway, obviously. Alas, her reply tells him she can.

“Don'go'way,” she repeats, “I love you. Don'urpme.”

He freezes. “What was that?” he inquires sharply, but her only answer is silence. She's passed out completely now, her weight resting heavily against his side, but somehow it feels like that's how it should be. She asked him to stay. Obviously, he can't leave now, so he sighs and lets his head sink against the backrest of the couch.

***  
Emma Swan doesn't wake up the next morning, it's more of a painfully slow struggle back into consciousness. She hears a weird buzzing in her ears, her head is pounding and heavy, and it hurts like a bitch. With some effort that increases the throb behind her closed eyes, she tries to recall what has happened. She knows only one thing for sure, that she got punch-drunk at the staff Christmas party, and the last thing she remembers is... oh God. The first groan of the day escapes her throat. Because the last thing she remembers is a pair of angry blue eyes in front of her face, and a sarcastic “watch your step, darling – you wouldn't want to end up at my feet now, would you?” Of course, him of everyone she had to stumble across in her drunken state, the biggest asshole she'd ever had the displeasure of working with – Killian God's-gift-to-women Jones. She shudders at the thought. “Keep dreaming,” she replied in a slurred voice and stumbled on – and after that, everything is blurred. She has not even the slightest idea how she got home, but she is definitely home.

She tries to sit up and manages just-so, but it doesn't feel good; it feels awful, actually. The pounding in her head swells to a goddamn jungle drum solo, and the foul taste in her mouth isn't destined to make her feel better either. Obviously, she has passed out on the couch, that much is clear. Emma has the strange sensation that someone has been with her... her eyes pop open when suddenly she has a clear image in her head, but the pain makes her squeeze them shut right again. Her fuddled brain tries to grab hold of that image, and when she manages, she buries her head in her hands an groans. What a nightmare, she's never going to touch tequila again. She must have words with her brother; the stuff David had provided for the Christmas party must have been the cheapest booze if it conjures dreams of Killian Jones in her slumber. For a moment, the image was frighteningly clear in her head: she was curled up at his side, had her arms wrapped around him and told him that... oh God. She groans again. In her dream, she told him that she loves him and begged him not to hurt her. She shudders again; nothing could be farther from the truth. She loathes that man. Truly.

He came to work at her brother's company about half a year ago, and when she first laid eyes on him she was intrigued. His blue eyes were spectacular and his eyelashes not from this world; the mostly unruly dark hair and the slight ginger scruff he sported were eye catchers, and so was his butt in those skinny jeans he liked to wear. Hearing his low voice speak in that distinct accent did unspeakable things to her, but just when she thought he looked good enough to eat (and planned to do exactly that), he made one big mistake: he smiled. It wasn't a suggestive smirk or a flirty grin like she was used to, no; he looked her openly in the eyes and smiled like he meant it – like he meant her. Not her pretty ass, her blonde hair or her boobs – her. Too good to be true – and if she'd learned one thing from her various experiences with men: if a guy looked too good to be true, usually he was neither good nor true, and those were the ones one should better steer clear of. She just shot him down with her sarcasm, and as it turned out, she was right, of course. Because in no time he was the cock of the walk, a flirt with everyone, and every female of the company – and a few males too – were drawn to Killian Jones like moths to a flame. 

He must be handling his affairs well, she'll give him that, because she hasn't ever heard of any trouble, bitch fights or gossip, but she still gives him the side eyes whenever she comes across him – which doesn't happen often, luckily. David has tried a few times to suggest she should go out with his best friend, but she was adamant that she just didn't do British. 

What venomous booze has made her dream of a cuddling session with Killian Jones, she doesn't know, but she'll make sure to never touch it again. She's still cradling her head in both hands and contemplating whether to lie down again or go to the bathroom, when a low voice floats through the cotton that is wrapped around her head. “Look who's back from the Underworld.”

Emma's head snaps up, and the movement doesn't do her any good at all. For a moment, her vision is blurred, but then she sees clear. Killian Jones is standing in the middle of her living room, wearing the same black tight jeans and navy blue shirt like the evening before, hair disheveled and scruff a little darker than usual – and how the hell does she even notice all this, her freaking eyeballs are hurting when she moves them in their sockets! It's like she fucking summoned him by recalling her stupid dream.

“Jones,” she manages to croak and struggles to sit up. It feels like she's speaking through layers of dirty cotton in her mouth. “What are you doing here?”

He saunters nearer. “I was your knight in shining armor,” he replies in a soothing voice that holds only the slightest bit of amusement. When her face contorts into a grimace of confusion – and that hurts too – he adds with an explanatory wave of his hand: “I brought you home.”

“Oh...” Her head is spinning, and she licks her lips. Just when she thought it couldn't get any worse. Surely, this was David's fault. “I suppose I should thank you then,” she murmurs through gritted teeth, and she wants nothing more than to disappear into a hole in the ground.

“Don't worry,” he waves her off nonchalantly and runs his hand through his hair, messing it up even more, and then it hits her: he looks like he's slept in his clothes. Which means...

“Did you stay here all night?” she asks incredulously, and when he just sheepishly tilts his head instead of an answer, she blurts out: “Why?”

He scratches behind his ear. “I promised Dave to get you home safely.”

“Oh... of course.” She closes her eyes again because the daylight hurts, and for a moment she's absolutely baffled because suddenly a wave of disappointment washes over her. What stupid fuckery is this even? Why else would he stay, and, what's the question of the day: why the fuck does she even care? “Anyway...” Quickly, she swings her legs down from the couch and gets up, trying to make her voice sound haughty. “You can go now and enjoy your weekend, I'm fine...” But the abrupt movement makes her dizzy head spin even more, and for a second her vision is blackened. Emma takes a step away from the couch, but she stumbles and falls. His strong arms catch her before she hits the floor and pull her safely to her feet again.

“No, you're obviously not,” Killian replies dryly, “but it's nothing a strong coffee and a few pills can't fix.” His hands are still steadying her at her waist and her left arm, and he's looking at her with a weird expression that makes the skin at the base of her neck prickle. Their stares lock and she doesn't know what's transpiring here. But before she has even a chance to gather her wits, a wave of nausea washes over her.

“I'm going to throw up,” she whines.

Immediately, he gets down to business. “Alright. Where's your bathroom?”

The hell is he going to the bathroom with her. “No,” she protests and tries to wriggle her arm free from his grasp, but he isn't having any of that.

“Swan,” he cuts her off sharply, “bathroom. Now.” His no-nonsense voice doesn't permit objection, and frankly, she doesn't even have the energy to argue, because her stomach is raging, and it's urgent. She points in the direction of the bathroom down the hall, and Killian grips her firmly around the waist and steadies her stumbling steps. “That's a good girl.”

She bursts into the bathroom with him closely on her bare heels, and she tries weakly to protest again. She will die from embarrassment if Killian Jones of all people witnesses her downfall. “No,” she chokes, but then she's forced to slump down before the toilet bowl, her body already convulsing in spasms. Before she throws up all the mess, he's at her side, and she can feel him pulling back her hair and holding it together at the back of her head so she won't dirty herself.

“Easy there,” he murmurs to her surprise and gently rubs her back while she bucks and gags and empties her stomach.

When she's done, he helps her up and she stands still a little unsure on her feet, the paleness of her cheeks slowly being replaced by the burning blush of mortification as she awaits his sarcastic remark that's surely to come. Instead, he just takes the towel hanging on a small hook beside the sink, wets it under the faucet and hands it to her. “Here. If you freshen up a little and brush your teeth, you'll surely feel better,” he says in a casual voice, as if she hadn't just emptied the entire contents of her stomach and about 95% of her dignity into the toilet bowl with him holding her hair back. He isn't even looking at her, not giving away so much as an ironic twitch of his damn eyebrows. It's almost as if he deliberately tries not to embarrass her any further. As if he's being really nice.

Wordlessly, she takes the towel, and after a short nod, he leaves the bathroom and closes the door behind him, giving her privacy.

Emma stares at the closed door for a few seconds until her vision starts to blur again, trying to wrap her mind around what just happened, but her head hurts too much. No, but really, was that just Killian fucking Jones in her bathroom, helping her while she was throwing up? Without even so much as a sarcastic remark, not even before, when she literally almost ended up at his feet? That look he gave her when he held her just that moment longer than necessary... the sudden flutter of her stomach was due to the hangover-induced nausea, sure (or wasn't it?), but still... it was the strangest feeling.

Her eyes dart to her own reflection in the mirror, and she closes them with a groan of frustration. Skin pale and clammy, strands of hair plastered across her sweaty forehead, dark shadows under her eyes and her eyeliner and mascara smeared so that she looks like Jack Sparrow on a bad day. Honestly, she looks like chewed up and spit out, and not that she cares to look pretty in that man's eyes, – because hello, why would she care? – but holy crap. She remembers the towel in her hand and dabs it over the back of her neck, enjoying its soothing coolness that almost immediately makes her feel a little better. How thoughtful of him. What? God, this was so confusing.

It drives her crazy that she can barely remember a thing from yesterday. Normally, she doesn't drink that much, she really doesn't. And actually she was in a good mood yesterday. Okay, she was maybe a little tipsy when David and Mary Margaret told her about this year's arrangements for Christmas, but no way was she drunk. She saw a few of the office's happy couples getting all christmas-y, which got a bit on her nerves, and then she recalls... oh fuck. She was talking to her friend Ruby when the brunette giggled and looked over Emma's shoulder, tsk-ing. Emma turned around to see the quirky blonde IT-specialist whose name she keeps forgetting walking up to Killian Jones; everyone just called her Tinkerbell because she could fix just anything computer-related. She waved a mistletoe above his head, grabbed the lapels of Jones' vest and pulled him down for a hearty smooch. Emma rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Good luck with that one, Tink," Ruby commented under her breath, "Mr. Sex God's not interested, trust me." When Emma raised a questioning eyebrow at her, she added with a shrug: "You know me. I had to try. Go ahead and judge me. I mean, just look at him."

"No, thank you," Emma huffed. "Where's the booze?" 

She throws the towel on the floor. Why the fuck does suddenly everything lead back to Killian Jones? She curses her brother for putting her in this situation, sending him of all people to take her home in that desperate state. David knows that she despises Killian Jones. He briefly even tried to set her up for a date with the guy, but she made it clear that she didn't approve of any meddling with her love life – and that she wasn't interested in cheeky assholes with blinding smiles who thought they were heaven-sent, even if David assured her that Killian wasn't like that. Of course they're best friends, so Mr. Perfect couldn't say no, but why the hell did he stay all night? To delight in her misery, to see her at the deepest bottom the morning after? So far, he hasn't shown any trace of glee, she has to admit. Then why – to take care of her? Her eyes dart back to the towel he handed her, and the soothing tone of his voice when he held her hair hums in her head. This was more than confusing.

At least his presence explains the dream she had – well, part of it. Surely not... that other part. She opens the faucet and starts to splash cold water into her face, hoping to cast away weird memories, startling dreams and confusing feelings by anchoring back again in reality.

When she leaves the bathroom twenty minutes later, she feels already a little better; the raging headache kept at bay after two aspirins, the foul taste in her mouth gone and her stomach still irritated, but that's manageable. She feels clean, the last smudges of last night's makeup removed, freshened up and comfortable after she slipped out of her little black dress and into a comfortable set of sweatpants, a sweater and fluffy socks. She just wants to slump on the couch again – her bed would feel too much like being sick – and snuggle deep into the cushions and a blanket, dozing off in the hope of pushing the weird thoughts of Killian Jones taking care of her to the back of her mind.

Alas, when she shuffles back to her living room again, she finds him there, sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine. He looks tired. When he sees her, he slowly rises to his feet, a slight smile playing around his lips. She tries to detect a hint of mockery on his face, but she finds none. With a voice that's still a little croaky, she remarks unnecessarily: “You're still here.”

He scratches a spot behind his ear and motions vaguely towards the low table in front of the couch. “You haven't had your coffee yet,” he comments, and only now Emma notices a steaming mug. She swallows and doesn't reply, doesn't know what to reply. She doesn't understand why he's acting like that – all caring and kind – and she's afraid of what she doesn't understand. Especially when men are concerned. Especially when Killian Jones is concerned. She'd rather have him behaving like an asshole; that would be something she could deal with.

She stands there for a few seconds without moving, before she blurts out: “Are you going to make me the joke of the office on Monday?” She raises her chin, and the look she throws him is almost defiant, and she's pretty sure he's planning to do exactly that, because duh. He's a guy.

She's a little surprised to see his face fall. “Why would I do that?” he asks calmly, not taking his eyes off her.

Suddenly feeling sheepish, she looks down at her feet. “Well, you wouldn't be the first,” she murmurs.

He snorts. “You're not used to people being nice to you, are you?”

“I'm not used to men being nice,” she admits and fixes her gaze firmly on him, “not without expecting something in return.” 

A muscle in his jaw clenches. “Well, that's a shame,” he comments almost curtly and adds: “Think of me as you wish, love, but whatever you think I am – I do believe in good form, and taking advantage of someone's vulnerability surely doesn't qualify as part of it.” He waves again in the direction of the coffee mug on the table. “You should drink it while it's hot.” He turns around and heads towards the door.

Instead of being relieved to finally get rid of his company, she calls after him, before her brain can forbid her to do so. Stupid brain, still hungover. “Jones?”

He stands rooted to the spot and just throws a look at her over his shoulder, a quirked eyebrow marking the question.

Emma draws a deep breath. “Thank you,” she says sincerely and much to her own surprise.

He just tilts his head in a nod – or is that a bow? – and replies in that stupid diction of his: “At your service.” And with that, he turns on his heel and leaves the house. She stares at the closed door for a full minute. Then she shakes her head to herself – very carefully, because it still hurts – and finally shuffles over to her couch to settle down. The steaming mug sitting on the coffee table seems to mock her somehow, and it's a very frustrating feeling. For a moment, she contemplates taking the mug to the kitchen and pouring its contents into the sink, but then she tells herself that would be ridiculous. She takes a sip, it's still hot and tastes good; it's black, strong and sweet, just how she likes it, and she wonders how he knew. But then, probably just coincidence. An old saying – she doesn't even remember where she heard it – pops up in her mind: good coffee should be black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel and sweet as love. She puts the mug down with a sharp clank. Probably not good for her stomach anyway.

She wraps herself in a blanket and snuggles deep into the pillows on her couch. When she tosses and turns for a long time even though she's drop-dead tired, she blames it on the tequila before she falls into a restless sleep.

When she wakes up some time later, she's confused at first – it could have been twenty minutes or twenty hours of sleep that engulfed her. It's dark outside, she sees now, so it has to be early evening. With a sigh, she throws back the blanket that is crumpled around her waist and sits up; she doesn't really feel refreshed, but at least her headache is gone and her stomach seems okay again. Then she hears a noise and jumps up. 

Killian Jones is standing in her hallway carrying a plastic bag and grins sheepishly. “Sorry, Swan.”

“What…”

He raises his free hand in a defensive move. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I didn't mean to intrude… I thought you might still be asleep and didn't want to wake you up, so I let myself in.” Her face mirrors her confusion, and he continues hastily: “With the key your brother gave me yesterday. I figured you’d be hungry when you wake up, so I brought you this.” He raises the plastic bag. “I was going to leave it in the kitchen with a note. Sorry if I woke you.”

Emma frowns. “What's that?” she asks almost harshly. 

“Chicken soup.”

“Really?” She can't help but smile. “You bought me chicken soup?” He doesn't reply, instead fidgets with the plastic bag, and she sees that the container doesn't look like a ready-made one; it's a blue Tupperware box. She frowns. “Wait…” When it dawns on her, her eyes widen. “You made it?”

He tilts his head and throws her a challenging look. “Are you going to make me the joke of the office on Monday now?” he quips.

She presses her lips together and smiles sheepishly, averting her eyes for a moment. “Point taken,” she murmurs, and she realizes it's kind of an apology she's offering here.

He scratches behind his ear, not further commenting on it. “Where do you want your soup?” 

“Kitchen, please.” She leaves the living room and follows him when he carries the container with his chicken soup – his fucking homemade chicken soup – into her kitchen. Although she totally doesn't mean to, she gets a close look at him, and she can't help but notice the way his black jeans hug his backside so tightly, and yes, he does look damn fine. Well, his looks have never been the problem. Him being an asshole has been the problem. On the other hand, today he behaved really decently, she has to admit.

“There you go,” he says and sets the plastic box on her small kitchen table. “You shouldn't...” he waves his hand vaguely, “it's best eaten while still hot.” He nods, more to himself, and then turns toward the exit again.

Before Emma can stop herself, she blurts out: “That's an awful lot of soup for one person.” He tilts his head in a questioning manner, and she doesn't even know what's gotten into her, but she continues: “Would you like to join me?” He blinks and scratches behind his ear again, and she scolds herself mentally: what the fuck were you thinking? before she adds hastily: “That is, unless you don't have other plans. I mean, surely you have other plans, it's Saturday and...”

“Actually, no,” he cuts off her stammering. “I'd love to.”

“Uh... okay then.” She turns her back on him to rummage in her kitchen cabinets, her hands shaking and her mind racing, and she asks herself again what she was thinking. But the words are out, and now she'll have to deal with it, and if it means that she'll eat chicken soup in her kitchen with Killian Jones. Chicken soup made by him. Nope, not being an asshole at all today, which is really, really confusing. With some effort – where's the fucking flatware again? – she finally manages to set the table with two soup bowls and two spoons, and Killian opens the container. The soup is still steaming, and he fills both bowls, waiting for her to sit down before he follows her example.

Emma doesn't know where to look and smiles a little awkwardly at him before she picks up her spoon and tries the soup. It tastes delicious, and her eyes widen in surprise for a moment. She looks at him and finds his gaze resting on her with the slightest hint of a smile.

“It's... it's good,” she says and feels a little stupid.

He accepts her compliment with a tiny nod and replies: “It should be good for your stomach.” He takes his spoon and starts to eat, not making any further fuss and obviously not expecting her to make any small talk. But the silence makes her nervous, because she's not used to that kind of quiet company just for the sake of company, as in: not being alone. Except for when she's with her brother and his wife, she's always been alone. She continues to eat, but suddenly her stomach feels awkward again.

“Normally, I don't drink that much,” Emma finally says.

Killian shakes his head. “Look, you don't have to explain...”

“No, I know,” she interrupts hastily. “But I just thought you should know, since you were so kind to look after me...” She swallows before she continues: “...even if you were just doing David a favor.” She doesn't even know why she added that, sounding like she wants to complain. That's ridiculous. She doesn't care.

He draws a deep breath and puts down his spoon. “I wasn't,” he answers after only the slightest hesitation. Her eyes widen, and he goes on: “Even if Dave hadn't asked me to get you safely home – if I'd seen you leave the party by yourself in the state you were in, I'd have gone after you.” He looks down at the table where his fingers are playing – nervously? – with his spoon, his expression otherwise being unreadable.

“Why?” she blurts out.

A trace of annoyance flies over his face, and when he turns his eyes to her, they are of a quite stormy blue. “Because I'm a decent human being, unlike what you seem to assume of me.” His voice is low and controlled, but there's a hint of anger bubbling underneath the surface. “Although I have no idea what I've done to make you dislike me so strongly as you obviously do.”

Emma feels both her defense and her defiance kick in, and she raises her chin when the image of Tink smooching him under the mistletoe flashes before her inner eye. “What I dislike,” she replies pointedly, “is a womanizer.” The moment the words are out, she wants to slap herself because she knows she sounded far too concerned. She is not.

He looks at her like he's taken aback. His eyebrows shoot up in indignation. “That's what you think I am?” he asks incredulously. “A ladykiller?”

“Every woman in the office is lusting after you,” she snaps, “and you encourage them!” God, she just made it worse, and why the fuck does she sound like she's jealous? She is not!

Killian stares at her, trying to read her, David's words in his head again: Or she really likes you. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs, his rightful anger evaporated into thin air. Has he started to dismiss her drunken confession of last night as a mere stupidity of no importance – or perhaps he has even imagined things that weren't there – , so her reaction now shows him that his ears actually haven't deceived him. Because if that little outburst wasn't jealousy, he's never seen the green-eyed snake raised its head. Jealousy! He can't believe it. She likes him. Drunks and children speak the truth. He feels almost elated, even if she's glaring at him right now – he's used to that, and now he knows what to make of it. “Just because I like to tease and joke,” he replies calmly, “that doesn't mean I take another woman to bed every weekend.” He leans back and watches her, waiting for her reaction.

Emma blushes under his scrutiny as his words conjure inappropriate pictures in her head and raises her hands in a defensive gesture. “That's really none of my business.” She tries to backpedal and feign indifference, but fails miserably. Too vivid is the image of him engaging in... slippery activities in his bed. Her blush deepens, and she curses inwardly.

“No, it's not,” he deadpans and, when her face falls, adds in a more serious tone: “But – just like you didn't want me to assume wrong things about your drinking habits, I wouldn't want you to assume wrong things about my...” – he pauses and runs the tip of his tongue along the inside of his teeth, and her stomach churns even more – “...womanizing habits.” He tilts his head. “Not that I had assumed anything wrong about your drinking habits.”

She looks at him firmly, a stubborn determination and an unspoken challenge in her eyes; the soup is long forgotten. “And what did you assume about me?” she wants to know.

“You're bruised,” he replies without hesitation, and she cringes a little, “and on your guard. Especially when...” he falls silent and licks his lips again, as if he's suddenly realized he said too much. But then he sees the eager, almost pleading expression in her eyes, and he musters all his bravado and finishes: “...when you like someone.”

For the fraction of a second, Emma's eyes widen, and he half expects a sharp response, but then she leaves his allusion uncommented – undenied – and looks down at the table before asking: “If you'd watched, say, Belle getting punch drunk and leaving the party, would you have done the same for her?” Her voice is a little husky, and a fine shade of pink tinges her cheeks.

“Of course,” he answers immediately, not taking his eyes off her face for a second. He's stupidly elated about the hint of disappointment that ghosts over her features and continues: “Not to all extents, of course.”

Her eyes fly to his face again, a frown making her confusion evident. “What does that mean?”

He tilts his head again. “Would I have taken her home and seen her safely to her rest? Yes.” He can't help an amused eyebrow quirking up. “Would I have stayed over night, barely dozing in the most uncomfortable position, and let her snuggle up to me? No.”

Before she can get her features under control, Emma's jaw drops and her blush deepens. “Snuggle up?” she echoes and shakes her head with a snort. “I don't snuggle.”

“Oh, last night you bloody well did, Swan.” Although his blue eyes are twinkling with mischief, she believes him. 

Remembering her dream, she sighs a nervous laugh. “Can it get any more embarrassing?” When Killian just keeps scrutinizing her in a quite unreadable way, she groans, “Oh no,” and covers her eyes for a moment before she braces herself and looks up at him again. “What did I do?” The mortification settles in when she remembers her dream... and silently prays that it was only a dream and not her drunken self actually confessing feelings to Killian Jones she didn't even know she harbored.

He doesn't even contemplate for a second to tell her the truth, because he knows her walls would go up for sure that same moment. Briefly, he shakes his head. “Nothing. Let's just say you were being quite...” he pauses for a moment, licking his lips and looking for the right word that hints at the picture, but doesn't betray everything, “...cuddly.”

“Oh,” Emma makes, her mind racing as she tries to really remember anything, but damn, her whole memories are way too blurred. She only recalls vaguely a warm feeling of comfort and security and that she seemed to be holding on to something – or someone? – determined to not let go, not this time, never again. The seconds are stretching, and she feels his gaze resting on her once more, calm and steady. She has been cuddly with Killian Jones, well, great. At least the rest of her stupid dream didn't turn out to be true, thanks very much. She feels a fresh wave of blush creep up her neck when she recalls that dream so vividly again, and why does he have to look at her like that? Quickly, she throws a quip his way. “Now I feel bad that I didn't even offer you a coffee before groping you.” 

She tries to make her voice sound nonchalant while hastily getting up and busying herself with taking the half-emptied bowls to the sink; the meal is obviously over and besides, any excuse is fine to hide her face from him now: too many feelings are probably mirrored there right now, feelings even she herself doesn't understand.

“Well,” his smooth baritone caresses her ear, and she jumps a little, because his voice is quite near; she turns around. Killian is but a few feet away from her, and he smiles the tiniest smile, just a barely perceptible curve of his mouth... his very kissable mouth... (and where's the mistletoe when you need it and what the fuck are you thinking, hold your horses, Swan!) but his eyes are sparkling. “I guess that will have to wait until next time then.”

Instinctively, she tries to retreat, but she can feel the kitchen sink pressing against her lower back. On second thought, that's not quite an uncomfortable position. “Next time?” she echoes feebly and swallows, her mouth forming words before her brain can stop them from tumbling from her lips. “Is that you asking me out on a date?”

He blinks slowly, and his smile widens a little. It's appreciative, like he's pleasantly surprised that she went out on a limb like that. He tilts his head once in a nod and answers her in an almost solemn voice: “Aye. It is.”

Emma raises her chin again, and he finds that stubborn gesture of hers being a quite adorable trait. "Tinkerbell won't like it."

He frowns in confusion, completely thrown off track for a moment. "Tinkerbell?" he echoes.

The slight pink tinge of her cheeks deepens. "The blonde IT fairy," she says, and then it dawns on him. "I saw you kiss her yesterday."

An amused eyebrow shoots up when he tilts his head to the side. "She kissed me," he corrects, "she can be a bit overbearing." His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and she's distracted for a moment. "I'm not interested in her," he clarifies, any teasing gone from his expression now, and bores his stare into her eyes before adding: "Or anyone else."

Emma has never felt so out of control of a situation in her entire adult life; what happens here is clearly nothing she has ever planned or even thought possible, she doesn't understand it, any of it, and it's all going way too fast. Barely twenty hours ago she considered Killian Jones her nemesis, and now she's encouraging him to ask her out on a date. Feeling jealousy. Revealing herself to him. Making herself vulnerable. This is not who she is. Why the hell does she trust him to live up to his promise and not take advantage of her vulnerability? She tells herself she shouldn't. Anyway, this is a bad idea, and he's probably come to this conclusion for himself by now.

“I'm... I'm still your best friend's sister, you know.” There it is. She's offering him the easy way out.

He nods again, once. “I'm aware of that.” His gaze is unfaltering, resting on her face steadily, and she's asking herself why that doesn't make her feel uncomfortable. On the contrary, the way he looks at her so calmly has a soothing effect on her.

She averts her eyes for a moment. “If we go on a date and it doesn't go well...”

“We shall make it go very well then.” His voice is low and warm, and damn, it makes her stomach flutter. And this time, it's definitely not nausea.

Emma licks her lips before she swallows – her nervousness, her resistance and her objections. “Just so you know... I don't offer coffee on the first date,” she tells him.

Killian's mouth twitches into into that tiny smile again. That's because you haven't been out with me yet, he wants to reply, but he bites his lip just in time. The balance between them is very fragile, and he doesn't want to scare her off by throwing an innuendo her way that could make her think maybe her assumptions about his habits with the fair sex were right after all. So he just raises his eyebrow and tilts his head a little in question. “Is that you saying yes?”

There's the tiniest hesitation on her face, and his heart skips a beat, but then she presses her lips together in a tentative smile. “I guess it is.” Her voice sounds a little breathless, and he's sure her heart is beating a little faster, too. What a huge step that must be for her.

“Good." His smile brightens. "Would you like to have breakfast with me tomorrow?” he asks a little unexpectedly.

She raises her eyebrows. “Breakfast?" she echoes. "Is that your idea of a proper date?” Her tone is light and teasing.

He takes a step nearer, invading her personal space now. But Emma doesn't seem to notice; her eyes are glued to his lips. He shakes his head. “No, it's surely not, love." She blinks at that oh so stupid term of endearment, and he tilts his head before he explains: "But my idea of a..." – he pauses for a moment to run his tongue across his bottom lip this time, and her toes curl in her fluffy socks – "...proper date doesn't go well with a Sunday evening." He gives her a moment to contemplate what his idea of a proper date might involve, before he goes on: "And I don't want to wait until Monday in the office to see you again.”

Her eyes pop open in barely veiled delighted surprise at his – actually quite sweet – confession. “Oh...”

Killian's left eyebrow shoots up in question. “Pick you up at ten?”

At ten on a Sunday morning, Emma usually snuggles really deeply into her sheets and blankets again and sleeps for at least another hour; she hardly leaves the bed before noon on Sundays, that's her guilty pleasure. But maybe... maybe she could find another one. “Ten is fine,” she hears herself say.

“Good.” He smiles down at her and adds in a soft voice: “You should get a little more rest now.”

Emma notices how close he stands. Normally, she would feel trapped, but strangely enough, she doesn't. His nearness isn't imposing, it's... reassuring, somehow. “Is that you telling me I look awful?” she jokes, a little nervously nevertheless.

He raises his right hand tentatively and puts two fingers to her hair, smoothing a wayward lock from her face. When his fingertips brush across her cheekbone in the process she holds her breath without even noticing. Her eyes dart to his lips again, enjoying his almost bashful smile before he says: “No, that is me looking after you.”

He's so close now that she can smell him; it's a faint mix of a spicy cologne and something heady she can't define, but boy, does she like it. She's leaning against the edge of her kitchen sink, and the only escape route would be to the side, if she were inclined to back away. There's not one moment she even contemplates it. Their stares lock, and she's simply mesmerized by his blue eyes and their expression, there's no other word for it. The fine skin around them is creased a tad, and it's that ghost of a smile she's seen before. She finds tenderness, sincerity and something else... a little bolder, a little darker... something that matches that indefinably alluring scent and makes a ball of warmth coil deep in her belly. Emma blinks and drops her eyes for a moment to his mouth, she can't help it, and suddenly her throat is very dry and she has to swallow. When she looks up into his eyes again she sees more tenderness and longing and the hint of an unspoken question. Instinctively, she tilts her head back the tiniest bit, maybe just an inch or so, and parts her lips without even noticing. Killian leans forward in slow motion almost, bracing the distance between them inch by inch, his eyes never leaving hers for one moment, reading in them, reading her. And instinctively she knows: if he sees the slightest trace of reluctance in her eyes, he will pull back. She just knows. How did he call it? Good form. In her whole life, she's never felt so terrified and so safe at the same time like now: trapped between her kitchen sink and Killian Jones's body, about to be kissed by him. She watches him come nearer and holds her breath, and when the tips of their noses brush against each other she closes her eyes.

The kiss is brief and very soft, just a gentle touch of his lips to hers, warm and dry and absolutely promising. She has really no idea what this means, what it's supposed to be, but she knows one thing: that it feels right, and so she raises a little on her tiptoes and responds with the lightest of pressure. When he pulls back, she has difficulties opening her eyes again and focusing on his face. The fine lines around his eyes have deepened, the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth now – that mouth that just has caressed hers, and she still can't believe it.

When he speaks, his voice is a little husky. “Good night, Emma.”

He takes one step backwards, then turns around and walks towards the door. It takes Emma a few seconds to wake from her haze, and she calls after him: “Good night... Killian.”

When he hears her say his name for the first time while she's sober, he looks over his shoulder and smiles, and it's a full smile this time, butterfly-rousing and heart-stopping, and just how has she not noticed the sincerity in that smile before? She can't help but return it – a little shyly, but she does. He tilts his head, and again, it looks almost like a little bow. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

The next day Emma sets the alarm clock for 9 am which to her feels like in the middle of the night for a Sunday morning, but she is ready and radiant by a quarter to ten, and by the time Killian shows up, she's worked herself already into a state of nervousness (what am I doing, why am I doing this and what the fuck we'll be even talking about?!), but also some kind of eager anticipation. But then, he's there and kisses her on the forehead before scrutinizing her closely and asking if she's all right, and suddenly everything's easy and relaxed. He takes her to his favorite diner, and they have a long breakfast that turns into a brunch and leads to them spending half Sunday together; later, she doesn't even remember where they went and what they did... she just remembers the talking was easy and the company enjoyable. She doesn't even remember when it happened, but at some point she noticed that their hands found their way to each other, fingers intertwining, and the best thing is – it doesn't feel awkward at all, although she cannot explain to herself why. In the afternoon he drops her off at her place with regret but tells her on Sunday evenings he's always volunteering in a social center where he spends time with traumatized orphans – he calls them lost boys, and the look in his eyes tells her there's more about that than he's yet ready to reveal, and she finds she wants to know more about it. He doesn't drop her at the door of her apartment building but accompanies her to her apartment door and kisses her on the cheek before he says goodbye.

Monday, she's a little nervous because this is work territory, and she has no idea how to act around him; but she relaxes when he gives her an open smile and behaves completely naturally with her. No one throws her a square look, and when David asks her a little sheepishly if everything went alright after the party, she replies with a smile that evidently surprises her brother. Later, she accidentally sees Killian running into one of the female accountants, and her belly ties involuntarily into a tight knot when she sees the pretty girl smile and throw some obviously saucy remark at him, judging by her smile and the batting of her eyelashes. She draws a deep breath and braces herself for Killian's reaction and her reaction to it, but he just presses his lips together into a polite smile and replies without raising an eyebrow or pursing his lips into a smirk. The woman's smile withers a little, and Emma can't help but feel stupidly satisfied.

He takes her out for an after-work dinner on Tuesday evening. At her doorstep, he reaches for her right hand and brushes a feather light kiss on its back in an endearingly old-fashioned gesture, slowly running his index finger across her palm before releasing her. The goosebumps spread on her wrist and run up all the way to her shoulder, and that night she dreams of his fingers following the trail of gooseflesh up her arm and across her collarbone, up her throat to her chin, lifting it a little before he kisses her again, like on Saturday afternoon.

Wednesday evening, she's at David's and Mary Margaret's place for dinner, and when he tries to poke a little about the evening of the party and if Killian has taken good care of her, she just answers vaguely and brushes him off quickly. She's sure he's suspecting something, but she's not willing to share anything yet. Stir in your own juices, bro.

Thursday, she has to work late. Even if she's the boss's sister, there are deadlines to meet, and Killian surprises her by showing up at her desk when she thinks he must have already left; he puts a paper bag on her desk with a triumphant smirk, and when she curiously opens it and finds a grilled cheese with onion rings – her other guilty pleasure – she's baffled at how he even knows that. But then he also knew how she likes her coffee. He waits for her and takes her home when she's finally finished, and when he reaches for her hand this time, she doesn't let go but curls her fingers around his with determination and pulls him a little closer, just enough to make him understand, and he does. He leans in and kisses her softly on the mouth. Following her instincts, Emma parts her lips a little in a silent invitation, and the tip of his tongue strokes across hers in a very brief but nevertheless electrifying touch that sets her heart aflutter.

And then comes Friday. Finally, he takes her out on a proper date. They go out for dinner in a fancy restaurant, not over-the-top but romantic enough, and he brings her a single pink camellia when he picks her up. Afterwards, he takes her to his favorite place, the Skywalk Observatory, where they look up into the clear night sky and he explains the stars to her. Not one minute of it is boring. By the time they have reached her apartment, she has made up her mind. He's already a little more bold and leans in for a good night kiss, and this time she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close, closer – until their bodies are flush against each other, and it's amazing how they seem to fit so well. She is tucked in between he solid wood of her entrance door and the solid lines of his body, and again she feels anchored and safe in his embrace. His left arm is around her waist, and she can feel his warm palm on her back through the fabric of her clothes; his right hand cups the back of her head while he kisses her – carefully at first, but then a little firmer, a little more demanding. Even if Emma feels that she's in charge of the situation and is dictating the pace, it's not like Killian's afraid to handle her – just like he wasn't afraid to call her out on a few uncomfortable truths. Weirdly enough, that doesn't scare her off; it gives her a feeling of safety, and she lets herself fall completely into his arms and into the sensation on his mouth firmly taking possession of hers, his tongue invading but also welcoming. The kiss is slow and languid and very, very thorough, and God, he tastes good. 

When they finally pull apart, she's out of breath and has barely enough of it left to ask: “Wanna have breakfast with me tomorrow?”

Only their lips are apart, their bodies are still molded together and their foreheads leaning against each other, so he can nuzzle her nose with his. “Sure,” he replies, not less breathlessly, “pick you up at ten?”

She shakes her head, “Too early,” and delights in the trace of disappointment on his face.

“Eleven then,” he murmurs in a low voice and brushes his lips across her jaw while his fingers are caressing the back of her head, sending shivers down her spine.

“Afraid not,” she answers, and this time Killian groans I frustration. It's a growl deep in his chest, and Emma's toes curl in her boots.

“Swan,” he protests, “if it's past noon, it's not called breakfast anymore.”

She giggles under her breath; it's a very girlish sound. “What do you think about breakfast in bed?” she finally inquires and looks up at him from under her long eyelashes, her green eyes glittering with glee. His own grow a few nuances darker at her words, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough, obviously he fights hard to keep it under control.

“Is that you offering... coffee?” His tongue darts out to swipe across his lower lip, and Emma has already come to love that gesture of his; sometimes, she suspects, he does it on purpose. Right now, there's definitely mischief in his eyes when he adds: “On the first date?”

“I know, I said I wouldn't,” Emma replies and runs her fingers through the soft hair at the base of his neck, “but well, that was because I hadn't been out with you yet.” His lips curve into a delighted smile, almost like a child at Christmas which is downright adorable, and she raises her eyebrows in question: “Coffee?”

Killian grins. “With pleasure.” The deeper meaning of his words isn't lost to her.

Much later – quite an amount of pleasure has been mutually given and received – she's only mildly surprised to find herself wrapped up in his embrace, their limbs a tangled mess, while she's about to fall asleep. Emma Swan barely ever went farther than one-nighters, and she surely never let anyone stay overnight. At this point, she isn't even trying anymore to pretend this isn't completely different. Her left arm is wrapped across his stomach with her wrist resting at his hipbone, while her forearm is tickled by his body hair that's still a little damp with sweat. She can feel his fingertips paint lazy patterns on her bare back, paying special attention to the dimples at the base of her spine. She has thrown her left leg over his, trapping him at her side, and her head is tucked in the space between his scruffy chin and his shoulder. She doesn't mind at all that her nose is brushing against the side of his long neck; she is engulfed in his intoxicating smell she's already gotten so familiar with in this past week. It does feel a lot like in that dream she had in her drunken haze – was that only a week ago? – and her lips curl into a involuntary smile when she remembers how one week ago she still cursed Killian Jones with all her heart. She's just about to drift into a comfortable slumber when she hears his low voice mumble a few words into her hair.

“I'm not going to hurt you, Emma,” he whispers, and her eyes fly open when she realizes what it means... that he's basically answering the plea she thought she'd made only in her wild, alcohol-induced dream a week ago. She realizes that her dream hasn't been a dream, and for a second a wave of embarrassment washes over her as she recalls how she drunkenly confessed her feelings for him. But then she feels how he kisses the top of her head, and the gesture is absolutely endearing and reassuring.

So, instead she just smiles and turns her head a little to the side to press a kiss to his collarbone, runs her hand up his side and snuggles a little closer into him. She must remember to thank David for his ominous tequila.


	2. With Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> deleted scene to part one (some say - smutty outtake)

Never Hurts 2 – With Pleasure

 

“What do you think about breakfast in bed?” she asks with a mischievous glint in her green eyes, and Killian doesn't believe his ears at first when Emma words what he hasn't dared to dream of. He feels the low burn of desire that has been churning in his stomach since she pulled him close and allowed him to trap her between the wooden door frame and his body. It's growing into a roaring fire.

When he finally manages to pull his wits together to answer, his voice is low and a little rough. “Is that you... offering coffee?” he inquires with a teasing undertone and lets his tongue slip out – quite deliberately – and glide across his bottom lip. He catches her stealing a glance at his gesture. “On the first date?” he adds.

She shrugs, in a girlish way almost, and it's beyond adorable. “I know I said I wouldn't,” she admits and curves her perfect mouth into a smile that's disarming and sultry at the same time, “but well, that was because I hadn't been out with you yet.” She pauses, and he feels his face light up like a Christmas tree, his pure joy leaving no room for smugness. “Coffee?” she ascertains.

He grins, and if now there's a trace of lasciviousness on his face, who could blame him? He tilts his head and quirks his left eyebrow. “With pleasure,” he croons, emphasizing the word pleasure, and pleasure it will be, for both of them.

They are still standing very close, their bodies molded into each other, so all he has to do is lean forward again and capture her waiting mouth, kiss her as fervently as if he wants to steal the smile from her lips as well as the breath from her lungs. His left arm encircles her waist again and pulls her even closer, not bothering to hide that his body is already starting to react, now that he knows of her intentions. And Emma doesn't mind, obviously; she holds him by the lapels of his winter coat and kisses him back just as fiercely, rolling her hips forward against his. Further encouraged by that, he lets his hand wander lower until it cups her backside and squeezes tentatively. With a little gasp, she breaks the kiss, and for a second he thinks he's gone too far too soon, but she utters only one word against his lips, “Inside,” and he knows there's no need to worry.

Despite his resolution to keep up his gentlemanly manners for as long as possible, Killian flashes her a positively wolfish grin. “As you wish,” he hums and releases her for a moment from his embrace. She answers with a knowing smile and catches her lower lip between her teeth, the sight of that gesture making his blood boil even more. Almost magically the key to her apartment appears in her hand, and she has the door unlocked within seconds. Like a boisterous child, she grabs his hand and pulls him inside with her, throwing the keys onto a small table beside the entrance with a clattering sound while he clicks the door shut behind them.

Emma beams – her expression not less heated than he feels – and shrugs her coat off, simply letting it fall to the floor, obviously waiting for him to do the same. For a moment, he's paralyzed by both her beauty and her boldness, because this is Emma Swan after all, and one mere week ago she still chose to snarl at him to hide that she secretly had a soft spot for him. But now that all misunderstandings have been cleared, she obviously doesn't feel the need to hide anymore: she wants him, and she's not afraid to show it. And if that's not reason enough to be paralyzed in awe, he doesn't know what is. He snaps out of his state when she brings her hands to his lapels again and starts to push his coat off of his shoulders.

“You don't need that,” she tells him with a wicked smile, and as soon as his coat lands on the floor and is forgotten that same moment, she lunges forward, grabbing him by the lapels of his waistcoat this time – she obviously has a thing for getting a good hold on him, and he's starting to like that habit and is thankful for his dressing choices.

His left arm is around her waist and his right hand in her hair before their lips meet again, and they sway and stumble a little as they both try to get as close to each other as possible. Then she wraps her arms around his torso and presses her whole body flush against his while she kisses him senseless, although he gives as good as he gets. The feeling of her breasts pressed against his chest makes him dizzy, and when she does that rolling of her hips again, he can't help but groan into her mouth. Killian Jones still can't believe his luck, although she has been very open with him this past week. The flirting has been strong, and there has also been a lot of holding hands and goodnight kisses, partly encouraged, partly even initiated by her. Still, not even in his wildest dreams he imagined their first date ending like this.

“This is way too much clothing,” she breathes against his lips and brings her hands to his chest again, her fingers deftly unbuttoning his waistcoat while his hands rest at her hips and she keeps kissing him and kissing and kissing. Quickly, she also undoes a few more buttons of his navy blue shirt and pulls away from his lips to murmur, “That's much better,” before she leans forward to nuzzle the nook at the base of his throat where his collarbones meet and lets her lips wander up his scruffy neck, leaving a trail of fire behind. He lets his head fall back and gives in completely to the sensation of her warm mouth kissing all the way up to his right earlobe and then across his jaw to plant a soft bite on his chin. 

When her lips claim his again, her hands messing up his hair as she threads all ten fingers through it, he pulls her close again, very close, and like before she lets out an adorable little gasp when she feels his erection through his oh so tight jeans. “Bedroom,” she breathes, and he can't help but chuckle at her obvious habit of getting monosyllabic when desire fogs her brain. Also, her impatience is highly flattering, to say the least; she clearly can't wait to have him, and he will be more than happy to... 

“Bloody hell,” he suddenly blurts out and freezes in mid-kissing when a thought hits him through his lust-filled haze.

Emma almost jumps at his curse. “Killian?” she inquires breathlessly. “What is it?”

He lets his head fall back in despair and frustration. “We can't... I'm not...” he stutters, and she frowns, putting both hands to his face, cupping his cheeks.

“What's wrong?” she asks, genuine worry in her voice.

Killian scratches behind his ear, its tip turning slightly pink. “I... I don't have a...”

She lets her hands sink, her eyes widening in disbelief when she understands. “You didn't come... dressed for the party?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, and a wave of dread washes over him along with the realization that he has made an utter idiot of himself. He murmurs sheepishly: “I'm sorry, Swan, I...”

She holds one hand up to interrupt his rambling. “Wait... are you seriously telling me that after courting me all week and all the kissing and stuff you take me out on the perfect date and you don't have a condom in your wallet?” Well, that's wonderful. She must think he's a complete twit. He licks his lips nervously, barely daring to look into her eyes, when she adds, still in an incredulous tone: “You didn't expect anything to happen?”

That remark makes him snap out of his embarrassment, and he feels a trace of annoyance well up about her insinuation. “Of course I didn't expect anything!” he replies indignantly.

Emma smiles and shakes her head slowly, answering him in a soothing tone: “No, of course you didn't.” He looks at her questioningly, and she puts her left hand to his cheek again. This man is definitely a keeper, and she still can't believe her luck. “I keep forgetting you're always a gentleman,” she adds and tenderly brushes her thumb over the scar on his cheek – she makes a mental note to ask him about it some time. “Too good to be true,” she murmurs, more to herself.

Again, he tilts his head down and lifts his hand to scratch behind his ear – obviously a gesture that expresses embarrassment, she understands, which makes him even more adorable. “Well, thank you, love,” he replies and reaches for her hair now, letting a silky lock run through his fingers tenderly, “but I'm afraid that doesn't help us much right now...” He looks at her from under his illegally long black eyelashes, his fingers still playing with her hair. “Unless you allow me to worship you in ways...” He pauses for a moment, for effect maybe, and runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth before he finishes, “...that don't require a sheath.”

She presses her lips together in a smile and slowly shakes her head. “I'm afraid that won't be enough,” she says in an apologetic voice and enjoys the disappointment flying over his handsome face. “I want all of you.” She allows herself for a moment to watch the conflicting emotions openly visible on his face – oh, I'm gonna give it all to you (and the thought makes her tingle in all the right places) versus I'm so sorry but we can't (and that thought tugs at her heart) – before she delivers him from his inner turmoil. She lets her fingers run up the button border of his shirt and paints random patterns into his partly displayed chest hair with her index finger before she purrs: “Aren't we lucky that I have everything we need in my drawer...”

His eye pop open. “You...?”

Emma blushes slightly, not wanting him to think that she was talking about her usual precautions for her usual one-night-stand every other week. “I bought them last week,” she admits and lets him draw his own conclusions, which he obviously does; she can tell from the incredulous, happy, maybe only the tiniest bit smug grin on his face. 

“So you expected something to happen?” he asks only a little mischievously and puts his hands to her hips again, his thumbs caressing her through the fine material of her blouse. She can feel goosebumps rise on her skin.

She shrugs, withstanding his teasing, almost challenging gaze and looks firmly into his blue, blue eyes. “I've wasted too much time in my life with missed chances,” she offers in an almost defiant voice.

He nods. “Point taken.” Their stares lock, and the heat in Emma's belly increases as Killian's eyes darken. For a few moments, none of them moves and absolute silence fills the room, and just when she's contemplating grabbing him by the lapels again because she can't stand it anymore, he lunges forward this time. His hand goes to the back of her head, fingers spread so that they entangle in her hair right away. He crashes his lips to hers, and the pure force of the impact makes her stumble backwards, but his other hand at her waist steadies her as he steers her against the wall where he pins her with his body leaning heavily into hers. She's completely trapped, but like before, when he had her pressed against the door frame, she doesn't find it frightening at all, and instead of telling her to run, all her instincts scream to pull him closer for more, more, more. As if he senses that, he slowly slides one of his legs between her thighs. Because her fine motor skills don't seem to function very well, she refrains from trying to unbutton his shirt and just curls her fingers into the fabric while he kisses her in a way so thorough and in earnest that it makes her head spin. Slanting his mouth across hers, his tongue firmly demanding access, he makes it clear who is taking the helm here. There's a feral wildness in his touch he has held back until now, but Emma isn't really surprised by it, because she saw it already bubbling underneath the calm and gentle surface, lurking in the blue depths of his eyes, before he kissed her for the first time, one week ago in her kitchen. It takes her breath away.

He tightens his grip on her hair a little, and she eagerly follows the pull and tilts her head to the left to give him better access to her neck, where his mouth is aimed now. Killian kisses his way across her jaw all the way until he reaches that soft spot right below her ear, then his lips glide lower. When he reaches a certain point at the side of her throat, she lets out a breathless moan, and the right side of her body twitches against his in a move she has no control of, a move that elicits a satisfied hum from his lips. Now that he's discovered that spot, he regales it with his full and prompt attention, the contrast between his soft tongue and sharp teeth, his smooth lips and rough stubble driving her nearly insane. The way he kisses, licks and nibbles, sucks and scrapes transforms her legs slowly, but inevitably into useless rubber that would give away under her if she wasn't trapped between his hard body and the wall. Her body continues to move on its own accord, and she finds herself grinding against his leg, not feeling ashamed in the slightest. Her short skirt has ridden up her thighs, and she feels his fingers press firmly into the back of her leg, right below her ass, pulling her a little closer into him.

He hasn't even touched her between her legs or gone anywhere near her breasts, but she's a wrecked mess already, because God, that man can kiss. His fingers release her hair and caress the back of her head in slow circular motions instead. When Emma feels his erection press against her right leg, she blindly reaches for his hair and tugs at it impatiently until he lifts his head to look at her questioningly.

“Killian,” she breathes, and his mouth curves into an almost predatory smile before he sweeps her up in his arms in a surprising move that has her gasp.

“Where?” he just asks, his voice rough and low, sending sparks through her veins.

She motions her head down the hallway, kicks off her pumps and replies with a mischievous grin, remembering his talk about believing in good form: “Second star to the right.”

He chuckles, delighted at her pun, and carries her towards the indicated direction effortlessly, and with anyone else she would have found the gesture ridiculously pompous, but instead it just feels right (and she isn't sure anyway if she's even capable of walking straight). The light on her nightstand goes on, and she's grateful for the motion sensor. Killian doesn't carry her over to the bed but carefully puts her down on her feet beside it. She sways a little at first, and he holds her by the elbows for a moment before he raises his hands to the neck of her blouse and starts to unbutton it. Emma's gaze drops down to watch, and she's mesmerized by the sight of his fingers working their way slowly, meticulously down the button border, undoing the little obstacles one by one. A man's hands have always been a feature as important to her as expressive eyes and a beautiful smile, and Killian Jones meets her standards in every category. His fingers are long without being feminine, strong and definitely skilled. A fresh wave of desire washes over her as she lifts her gaze to his face and finds his eyes resting on her, a tiny devilish twinkle lurking in their depths that are of a midnight blue now. She can feel her heartbeat quicken by the minute.

When all buttons are undone, he pulls the garment out from where it's tucked into her skirt and pushes it from her shoulders. Emma shrugs it off graciously and lets it fall to the floor. She supposes she could blame the cool night air for the shiver that runs over her, but she doesn't even bother to deny that it's his burning gaze that lets goosebumps spread all across her torso and makes her nipples harden. Suddenly, impatience gets the better of her, and although she's enjoying all this build-up, she thinks it's time to shift into a higher gear. Quickly, she reaches behind her back for the zipper of her skirt and sends the garment to the floor along with her pantyhose, struggling a wee bit to shimmy out of it. She's rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from him when she stands before him in nothing but her black lace underwear.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, his voice thick and laced with desire, and for a moment he remains immobile.

“My turn,” comes her whispered response while she puts her hands to his chest to undo the rest of his shirt buttons, “fair's fair.”

Killian watches her lost in fascination, still not believing his luck – this amazing woman he has been admiring from afar for over six months has started to let her walls down for him just one week ago, and here she is, uninhibited in her impatient desire for him. He doesn't know everything about her yet, but he knows that she has been bruised in the past and badly treated by men, which resulted in her fierce determination not to let anyone near again – or allow herself to care for someone. All the more amazing it is that once she made up her mind to trust him, her determination to follow her heart wherever it may take her is just as fierce. He barely dares to breathe as he looks down at her small hands undoing his buttons one by one; her fingers tremble a little, and that makes it even more endearing to him. She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration and, he can tell by the flush on her cheeks, in eager anticipation. The sight has his animal side stir in his stomach, and it takes all of his self-control to stay still and let her progress at her own pace. When she has undone the last button, she tugs the hem of the shirt out of his jeans, and the friction at his hipbones makes his skin tingle. Emma smiles almost triumphantly and pushes the shirt over his shoulders along with his previously unbuttoned waistcoat.

Obviously she likes what she sees, because her heated gaze sweeps over his body like a caress, her eyes mesmerized, and she lays her right hand carefully on his left collarbone, the pad of her thumb gently pressing into the nook at the base of his throat, where his collarbones meet. Slowly, she runs her palm down his sternum, the heat of her skin threatening to burn him up inside. She flexes her fingers a little and rakes them through his chest hair, and when her short nails scrape across his skin he can't hold back a low primal growl that rumbles up from deep in his chest. Her eyes flow up to his at the sound, and the green is dark as a forest at night, gleaming with passion. The heel of her hand passes his bellybutton and reaches the waistband of his jeans, until she stills and spreads her fingers. The muscles of his abdomen flex and twitch against her palm in the rhythm of his breath, and he notices that she holds hers as she slowly brings up her other hand to pop the button of his jeans. When the zipper is down, she tugs a little, and he's quick to pull them down, discard them along with his shoes and socks. As they are facing each other again, both clad only in their underwear, their stares lock, and for a moment time seems to freeze. Killian snaps out of his haze though when he feels her warm hand cup his erection firmly through his boxer briefs.

Emma is startled at first when he jumps at the touch and catches her wrist to gently pull her hand away. “Easy, Swan,” he croons huskily, “all in due time.”

Before she can object, he puts his hands to her waist and leans forward to capture her lips in a passionate kiss, slowly walking her backwards in the process. She feels the back of her knees press against the mattress, and he bends past her to pull back the covers and sheets and urges her to lay down with only so much as a soft nudge of his hand against her hip and a reassuring smile. She follows her instincts and lets herself sink down on the bed, pulling Killian along with her. 

Determined not to draw this out too long, she reaches behind her to unclasp her bra before laying down, slips out of it and sends it flying to the floor. He freezes in mid-movement, an expression of total awe and reverence, bare of any lewdness, on his face at the sight of her nude form. Emma is moved and reaches out to gently caress his cheek. “Killian?” she murmurs softly, and the sweet sound of her voice and her touch pull him out of his trance, and he shakes his head slightly.

“Bloody spectacular,” he barely manages, his accent coming through a little more thickly than usual. He lifts his right hand and runs his fingertips from her shoulder down in a feather-light touch until it comes to rest at the side of her left breast; it fits perfectly into his hand, but Emma reaches out for him with both arms and pulls him close to her side, urging him so lay down beside her. He does, making her melt into the pillow with another breathtaking kiss, but before she can get lost in it, he slides his lips down her throat, only briefly nibbling at her collarbone, before he moves on to her right breast. She thinks she's in heaven when she feels his mouth – warm, intoxicating – close around her nipple while his fingertips dance across her other one. His touch is light and teasing at first, then it becomes stronger, more demanding: he sucks firmly and torments her oh so sweetly with his tongue, and his fingers roll and tug her nipple until she arches her back, pressing her head into the pillow.

“Killian,” she pants, and he lifts his head after releasing her flesh with a wet pop. The fiery look from his infernally blue eyes doesn't help her to keep her composure – or her ability to form coherent words. All she manages is: “Top drawer.” 

He just smiles and bites his bottom lip. “Relax, love,” he purrs, and she swears she can feel the vibrations of his voice. “We have all night.” And with that, he starts to move further down her body, marking the way – branding her? – with his mouth: gentle kisses, teasing nibbles, smooth licks and soft bites. His hands wander across the tender skin of her sides, thumbs gently pressing into her hips, while Emma lets her head slump back onto the cushion with a contented sigh; even though she's impatient, even though there's a fiery ball of desire coiling deep in her belly, an all-consuming thirst that demands to be quenched, this sweet torture is something she can take for a bit more – and honestly, Killian's tenderness touches her heart, and the wickedness in his eyes scorches her soul. The combination is intoxicating. For a few moments, she closes her eyes and just enjoys his caresses, but when she feels the shifting of his body as he moves away from her side, she lifts her head again to look down just to see him settle between her legs.

“Hey,” she whispers breathlessly and threads her fingers through his hair, “Killian... you don't have to...”

He smiles and rests his chin below her bellybutton, his scruffy throat making scratchy sounds against the silk and lace of her panties, and fuck, that sound alone makes a bolt of heat shoot right to her center. “Are you uncomfortable, love?” he inquires, his voice bare of any teasing, any smugness now.

For a second, she contemplates if she is – she has let men do that to her before, but if she's honest, she's never really felt comfortable with it. At a certain point, she's always felt the instinct to back away, to raise her walls and clamp her thighs shut; too defenseless did it make her feel, too much at the other one's mercy. To enjoy that kind of amorous ministrations requires to really let oneself fall, and Emma Swan has fallen and bruised herself way to often, because no one was there to catch her – she had to learn the hard way to look out for herself. She doesn't really know Killian Jones – but somehow, in some crazy way, she feels like she does... He told her once he doesn't take advantage of someone's vulnerability – and he has seen her at a really low point and has shown nothing but kindness and gentleness. And damn, she doesn't understand it herself, but her instincts tell her to let him in – in every sense of the word. So, she shakes her head no.

His smile is honest and sincere, the fine lines in the skin around his blue eyes crinkling into a map of affection. “Do you trust me?” he asks earnestly, and this time she doesn't hesitate.

“Yes,” she answers clearly and smiles back – a little nervously, but she smiles.

Killian lays a soft kiss right below her bellybutton and hooks his fingers into the elastic of her panties. “Then lay back and let me worship you,” he replies, his eyes never leaving hers, and tilts his head in a barely perceptible, reassuring nod. Emma swallows thickly and follows her instincts: she returns the nod. His smile brightens. “That's a good girl,” he croons and brushes his lips gently across her pubic bone before he slowly pulls her panties down. She watches him settle again, and he slides his left arm underneath her thigh, placing his palm against the swell of her hip. His right hand comes to rest against her inner thigh, nudging her a little more open, thumb caressing the tender skin of her groin. He looks up at her once more and smiles, a reassuring gesture again, and she draws a deep breath and lies back. She almost jumps when she feels the first touch of his tongue on her most sensitive spot, but his hands hold her gently in place, anchoring her to the mattress, and immediately his lips close around her little bundle of nerves almost soothingly. Emma exhales and lets herself fall completely. 

He waits for a few moments, until she adapts to the sensation and he feels her relax into his touch, against his mouth. Slowly, carefully he starts to move, treating her most vulnerable spot with the utmost attention and sensitivity, fully aware of the privilege he's granted. He caresses with his tongue, sucks with his lips and even teases with his teeth, delighting in the way she lets her hips rock in their own rhythm, perfectly mirroring the one he sets with his mouth. The heat within her is building up quickly, he can tell by the mad thrumming of the vein in her groin against his fingertips and the incoherent noises she's starting to make soon. Half and half he's been ready to stop any moment he'd feel her tense, paying attention to any sign that she's uncomfortable, but there's no hint whatsoever of that. All he feels is her complete abandon as she writhes beneath him, all he smells and tastes is her increasing arousal. His own arousal is growing, too – literally – and he has to stop himself from rutting into the mattress in the rhythm of her moans to relieve himself. When the rocking of her hips against his mouth becomes more and more erratic and her voice more and more urgent, he knows she's close – and he's a little thankful for that, because his own desire has reached aching heights, and by God he plans to remedy that soon. He shifts a little and helps her reaching her peak faster by adding his fingers, stroking and caressing her inner walls until he feels them start to flutter and twitch around him, and with one final arching of her back from the mattress and a muffled cry of his name she falls apart.

Emma's eyes are tightly shut while she waits until he has brought her down gently, laying soft kisses on and between her thighs, waits until she can breathe again, her legs still trembling in the aftershocks. She's completely blown away – not only by the way he pleasured her with his irresistible ministrations, but also by the way he made her feel so safe and cherished. She opens her eyes when she feels the mattress shift under his weight as he moves. The first thing she sees is his handsome face with those glittering eyes, and she's surprised to see that he looks almost as wrecked as she feels, like what he just did to her hasn't left him unaffected at all. He looks like he's almost in awe, and the little smile that curves his mouth – his fucking talented mouth – is more tentative than smug. She smiles back, and then he's hovering over her, bringing a hand to her face and brushing a lock from her forehead.

“How do you feel?” he asks softly.

She has to swallow the thick lump in her throat before she can speak; having someone put her first has been all too rare in her life. “Thoroughly worshipped,” she replies simply and he snorts a little laugh.

“Had enough yet?” his eyes are twinkling with humor, but also with a devilish glee that makes her toes curl, as does the low tone of his voice.

She looks up at him in an almost challenging way and licks her lips. “I can take a little more.”

His eyebrows shoot up and he tilts his head, obviously pleased with her playful answer. “Good,” he purrs, and then his voice grows even darker. “'Cause I'm not done with you yet.” He pops the 't' a little, and she'll be damned if that isn't the sexiest thing she's ever heard. He brings his mouth down on hers for a slow and thorough, yet demanding kiss, and she can taste herself on his tongue. She's never experienced that before, and she's surprised to find how much it turns her on.

When Killian breaks the kiss and she chases after his lips, he smirks down at her. Then he reaches into the top drawer of her nightstand and pulls out one of the little foiled packs she has stocked there. He sits back on his heels and rips the foil open with his teeth, and Emma lifts herself up on her elbows to catch a glimpse only to notice with surprise that his boxer briefs are already gone; he must have gotten rid of them before taking care of her. She draws in a sharp breath when she sees him roll down the condom meticulously over his length – from what she can judge, he isn't extraordinarily big, but he looks damn sufficient to her, and she licks her lips as a wave of fresh heat rolls through her veins and settles low in her core. His gaze is fixed on her face, and he watches her watch him; she can almost hear the buzz of electricity in the air. Emma reaches out for him with both arms, and he lowers himself on her again, his eyes darkened with lust. She bites her lip when she feels his tip nudge her entrance and lifts her hips a little in an unspoken invitation. Killian's eyes bore into hers, dipping right to the bottom of her soul, as he pushes forward a little and then slides in slowly, inch by glorious inch, coaxing a breathless sigh from her.

She's tight and wet and warm, and it feels so amazing that he could easily just stay like this and wait for his high to build up without moving, and he doesn't want to leave that exquisite heat – but then he does, and he pulls back just as slowly, almost all the way out. She groans in frustration, and the sound almost sends him over the edge untimely early, but he musters all his self-control and slides back in even more slowly, although his primal instincts urge him to just ravish her, pound into her until her headboard breaks – and he's quite sure she wouldn't complain. Save the best for last, he thinks and repeats the agonizing move, setting a lazy, steady rhythm with his hips to which she quickly adjusts, responding with a soft rolling of her own. The only sign of her impatience is the way she digs her short nails into his shoulders and her heels into the back of his thighs, pulling him in even closer. They play that game for a bit, nice and slow, in and out, breathe and sigh. But then her breaths become gasps and her sighs moans, and she arches her back from the mattress, her eyes wide open now.

“Killian,” she urges, “please...”

“Please what,” he replies in a low voice, never ceasing the roll of his hips, encouraging her, “tell me what you need, darling.”

With a particularly wicked flex of his hips he grinds his pubic bone against her once more swollen nub, and her fingers claw at his shoulder as she pants: “More...”

He stills for a moment and pulls back a little, resting on his knees, to grab her right ankle and place it on his left shoulder after giving her calf a little teasing bite. Then he takes her left ankle, brushes a kiss on its inside and places it on his right shoulder. When he leans forward again and steadies himself with his hands on both sides of her, her sharp intake of breath and the dilating of her pupils tell him that the way in which she's bent at the waist now has changed the angle just right. He settles back inside her again, and the position allows him to dig in really deep. He feels her hands grip his forearms firmly and smiles down at her.

“Hold on tight, love.”

Her fingers dig a little more into his muscles when he pulls out, and when he pushes back in deeply, hitting that spot that makes her see stars, she cries out his name. Killian pulls back again, but this time there's no teasing – they're both beyond this point, needing more. He drives back in, pounding into her again and again, his strokes deep and thorough now, and the bedroom is filled with the oldest sounds of the world – pants and gasps, groans and moans, the slapping of flesh against heated flesh, Emma's filthy curses and pleas and the banging of the headboard against the wall. The noise makes him reign in his animal drive for a second, almost shocked that he got carried away that much, but Emma's nails cut into his skin, and he looks down into her face – her beautiful, flushed face shimmering with a sheen of sweat.

Her feverish eyes find his as she begs: “Oh God, don't stop... don't stop!” 

That's all the encouragement he needs. Without hesitation, he picks up the frantic pace again, his hips snapping forward with force, hard and fast, and her thighs grip his waist like steel, lifting her body up to meet his thrusts, encouraging him to rampantly give all he's got and greedily take, take, take everything she has and is until they're both spent and ready to break down and fall apart. And he does exactly as she wishes.

“Emma,” he demands as her eyes are closing in her ecstasy, and they fly to his again, “look at me.”

She obeys as her back arches from the mattress once more to meet him, before she deliciously convulses around him in a rush that triggers his own release, and then collapses. He ruts into her a few more times, with less force now, to bring them both down, because those last finishing thrusts into the aftershocks are always the best. Then he finally stills and slowly lets her legs slide down from his shoulders, letting himself sink down on his elbows. He covers her body with his, but is carefully paying attention not to crush her. 

He rests his forehead against hears, breathing heavily, and it takes a full minute before he can even muster enough strength to open his eyes again. Hers are still closed. He licks his dry lips, the blood still rushing in his ears. “That was...”

Emma's eyelids lift slowly, lazily, and it looks like it's taking her a lot of effort. “Good form,” she whispers, her voice still breathless and a little hoarse from her repeatedly cried curses of heaven and hell and names – his, God's, the Devil's. To her, there was only little to no difference between the three tonight. “Definitely good form.” She licks her lips, too, and grins like the cat that just got the cream.

Killian is delighted by her playfulness; part of him was a little afraid that her complete loss of control might have frightened her a little. He cocks an eyebrow at her and the move makes a droplet of sweat trickle down his temple. “Are you making fun of me?”

She stretches her body beneath him and lets out the most lecherous post-orgasmic purr he's ever heard. “I guess I shouldn't...”

He chuckles and leans down to bump her nose with his. “You can make fun of me any time, Swan.” It's getting a little uncomfortable for his aching muscles – he's spent all his strength during that insane ride – and he slowly slips out of her. Her little moan of complaint is music to his ears, but he needs to go to the bathroom to get rid of the condom and clean himself up a little.

“Down the hall,” she calls after him as he leaves the bedroom, and he throws her a smirk over his shoulder.

“I've been already to your bathroom, remember?” he quips, and she huffs in response.

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me,” she grumbles.

Emma lets her head fall back onto the pillow and pulls the blanket over her body; the sweat is drying on her skin, cooling her body heat, and for a few moments she just lies there and listens to her heart that's still beating a little faster than normal and the thrumming of her nerves, every fiber still vibrating with the incredible pleasure she's just experienced. Twice. She's not a fledgling, and she's had good sex before, but what has happened here... this is completely new to her. Killian has not only read every single sign her body sent out – consciously or unconsciously – and immediately responded to it... no, by doing so, he has somehow also taken care of her soul. Even though he surely hasn't treated her like some fragile piece of china, he has made her feel like she was the world's most precious treasure to him. He has hit her g-spot numerous times, but with each thrust he has also reached deeper into her heart, her soul and the whole essence of her being. It's ridiculous, because she doesn't even know him, and she can't even put her finger on where that feeling of security, of home comes from, but it's there. She knows she should run; the last time she's let someone come near – and compared to Killian Jones, that man hasn't even scratched the surface – she got burned badly. She knows she should run.

Killian enters the bedroom again, and when he's crossed about half of the distance between the door and the bed, he scrutinizes her closely, maybe sensing her thoughtfulness, hesitating for the tiniest bit. For a moment, dread settles deep in her belly. Is this the moment where he pulls back because looking deeply into her soul he must have seen how bruised she is, how complicated, and why would a man like him want to... but all she sees in his midnight blue eyes is a hint of worry... worry that she might have changed her mind?

“You still want me to stay?” he asks softly and scratches behind his ear. God, how can the same man bang her senseless in one moment and be so adorably sweet and shy in the next?

Emma presses her lips together and smiles before she pulls back the sheets and pats the mattress beside her invitingly. “I promised you breakfast in bed,” she tells him firmly.

It dawns on her that his hesitation had nothing to do with planning his retreat; that was just him making her understand that it's up to her to set the pace whereas he will accept whatever she's willing to grant him. His thoughtfulness warms her heart once more, and for the first time she actually thinks that Killian Jones is the man she could fall for. She knows she should run, but suddenly she can't think of a reason. When he slips between the sheets beside her, she doesn't feel pressed or straitened, she feels free. Carefree.

Killian stretches out beside her and pulls the sheets over them both again, his body facing hers. He doesn't shift really close to her, just props his head up on his left hand. He lifts his right to her face and carefully traces the contours of her cheekbones, her eyebrows, her nose, her jawline with his fingertips. “So,” he finally says in a playful tone, “for a first date, you'd say it was acceptable?”

She laughs and brushes the back of her hand across his chest, enjoying the feeling of his wiry chest hair tickling her skin. “I'd say you earned your breakfast,” she comments.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Already?” He tilts his head. “You're easy to please then, Swan. You haven't seen anything yet.”

Emma slaps his chest, but it's more like a caress. “The night is young,” she scolds. “I could still throw you out.”

“Hmm,” he hums and runs his index finger down her throat. “Guess I'll have to work a little harder then...”

He smiles down at her, an enticing mix of boyish glee and a devilish challenge on his handsome face, his fingertips continuing to paint lazy patterns along her collarbones. Under the blankets, he casually brushes his shin along the side of her leg, she's enjoying the touch and she's engulfed in warmth and his smell. It's an awful lot like cuddling, and Emma Swan doesn't cuddle – well, at least not when she's sober, that is. She isn't drunk now, but she finds herself at ease, and so she decides not to question it. She stretches her body comfortably, feeling a delicious heaviness settle in her bones, and she has to resist the urge to shift a little closer to him and bury her face into his chest, wrap herself around him. She doesn't even know where that urge comes from, but she's determined not to give in to it. Yet.

“What are your plans for Christmas?” she asks almost casually, so out of the blue that she's startled herself.

His eyes widen the tiniest bit in surprise, and she cringes inwardly at her foray, afraid it might have sounded clingy, but then his eyes light up even more, and she sees it's pleasant surprise. “Christmas Eve I'll be at the group home,” he tells her, a soft expression on his face.

“The lost boys,” she muses, remembering how he called them.

“Aye, the lost boys,” he replies with a smile, obviously pleased that she hasn't forgotten about it, and tilts his head in a shrug. “You know, trying to make Christmas for them a bit more... like Christmas.” She nods, and her heart goes out to him when she thinks how messy and sad her own childhood has been before her half brother found out about her when she was already twenty. “And well, for Christmas Day,” he continues and scratches behind his ear, “Dave has invited me over for dinner.”

She sits up abruptly, her emerald eyes glittering in amused disbelief. “My brother is a fucking sneaky bastard,” she says slowly, and there's almost admiration in her voice. She'd never have thought David could be so cunning. “He and Mary Margaret told me, like, everything about their plans for Christmas Day, but they did leave out that tiny detail.”

Killian lifts himself up in a sitting position, too, raising his hands in a soothing, slightly sheepish gesture. “Look, Swan, if you prefer I can tell him I can't come...”

Emma is secretly touched by his eagerness to make her feel comfortable at all costs, and if it's at the expense of him spending Christmas Day alone. She's amazed at herself, but the thought of spending Christmas Day with him at her brother's and sister-in-law's house doesn't frighten her at all. “Why would I prefer that?” she asks.

He tilts his head with a hint of confusion and scratches behind his ear again. “Uh, I don't know... too much, too soon?” he offers.

She shakes her head. “Killian, one week ago I still hated you, at least that's what I thought.” He raises his eyebrows in question, waiting for her to continue. “This past week has been crazy,” she goes on, “and you...” – she pauses for a moment and bites her lip, suddenly a little scared by her own bravado, but then she continues, “you have turned my life upside down. And I like it.” Emma fixes her eyes on him firmly, leaning a little forward to make sure he understands everything she's about to say. She thinks she's probably crazy, but she can't find it in her to bother. “I don't care if it's crazy or too much or too soon.” She draws a deep breath and raises her chin almost defiantly. “Do you?”

The fine lines around his blue eyes deepen a bit as his skin crinkles, the smile tugging at the corners of his beautiful mouth, ready to break in full bloom. “Not one bit,” he confirms.

Emma nods. “Then I'll see you on Christmas Day.” Years of experiencing hurt and rejection have the tiniest hint of insecurity sneak into her implied question.

The smile fully blooms now as he tilts his head. “As you wish.” She snorts an almost nervous little laugh at his answer before he adds: “We don't have to let them know...”

She narrows her eyes and interrupts him by pointing her finger almost severely at him. “Are you planning to make this a one-time thing?”

He shakes his head once, a simple and sincere gesture. “No. Are you?”

Her eyes drop to his lips for a second, before she looks up at him again. “No,” she replies firmly, because it's true – she doesn't want this to be a one-time thing, and she can as damn well stop pretending this isn't different from everything she's felt so far. “I want to be with you, and I know my asshole brother will tease me to no end about it and be all like 'I told you so', so best get it over with.”

His eye are sparkling with – what is that, happiness? “Say that again, Swan,” he demands.

She frowns, confused at first. “Say what? Best get it over with?”

His head drops to the side, eyebrow cocked again. “Not that. The first part.”

“Oh.” She presses her lips together in a smile and averts her eyes for a moment. “That I want to be with you?” She can feel a slight blush rise in her cheeks, but again, it doesn't bother her at all; the warmth it brings isn't uncomfortable.

“Aye,” he nods. “Not that I complain, but – just like that?” he teases and lifts his hand to her hair, smoothing a strand behind her ear tenderly. “I mean, apart from me not being a ladykiller, you don't know much about me.” Yes, it is definitely a happy smile, she can tell, amazed at the things that transpired here in the blink of an eye. In only just a few words they have settled that this is not a one-time thing (which means they are obviously about to start a relationship – a word she has avoided like the plague in years), that he is special to her and that they will spend Christmas Day together at her nosy brother's, which makes that whole relationship thing even official, and all of this after one mere week of not hating each other anymore, after their first date and their first sex. Yeah, definitely crazy. And now they're so nonchalant about it all that they can even banter.

Emma nods thoughtfully. “You're right,” she replies and scrutinizes him closely. “Well, I know you believe in good form,” she says and adds with a smirk, “you are in good form... you can cook...” That makes him grin and avert is eyes for a moment – adorably bashful – “you're thoughtful,” she continues, “a gentleman... all in all, a decent guy.” She falls silent and he waits with a twinkle in his eyes while she taps her index finger against her lips, pretending to be contemplating something. “Actually, you seem like you're too good to be true,” is her final verdict, and although she's teasing him, there's not one lie in what she said. She tilts her head in question. “Don't you have one flaw, Jones?”

Killian can't resist a cocky gesture; he folds his arms behind his head and leans back against the headboard he just had banging against the wall only a few minutes ago. “Oh, I have plenty of them, Swan,” he purrs, puffing out his chest a little. “Ask me anything. I'm an open book.”

She presses her lips together in a wicked smile before she asks: “Do you mind... a woman on top?” 

He eyes her up and down and slowly swipes his sinful tongue across his full bottom lip, tilting his head. “I don't... as long as it's you.” He doesn't move, stays motionless like he is, waiting for Emma to make her move, as she obviously intends to. His eyes burn into hers, an unspoken invitation luring her.

She leans over to him, threads her fingers through his already unruly hair and kisses him with fiery passion. He responds in kind and brings his right hand to the back of her head to cup it, but remains rather passive otherwise. Emma appreciates that and marvels once more at how his instincts tell him again what she craves, what she needs. She has reveled in the way he took the lead and pleasured her before, but now she wants to claim him as much as hers as he branded her before. She wants to touch, cherish, explore, smell and taste – she wants to take and make clear that she doesn't intend to let go. While she deepens the kiss, her lips and tongue becoming more demanding, and she leans in closer, letting her left hand caress down across his jaw and along his throat. She moves to kiss her way down his neck, and he lets go of her head immediately, completely leaving it up to her to captain her journey. As she leans more into him to mark his throat, his collarbones, his chest with a trail of fiery kisses, he just puts his left hand lightly to her bare back, his fingertips caressing up and down her spine. Emma runs her hand over his pecs and buries her nose in his chest hair at the lowest point of his sternum, the spot where she finds his intoxicating smell the most intense. She presses her lips briefly there and then follows with her mouth the path her hand is leading. When her fingers pass his pubic bone and are closing around his already hardened length, a growl from deep inside his chest rumbles up, and she can feel it vibrate against her lips. She smiles and brushes feather-light kisses to his hipbone before she turns her attention to the exquisite prize she's holing in her hands, hot and smooth and very much alive. The contrast between the silky texture of his skin and the steely, pulsating hardness that lies beneath is alluring, as is the scent. She finds a heady mix of soap and musk and that special nuance she can already identify as Killian's very own. She squeezes a little, and the muscles in his abdomen flex in response, followed by a muttered “bloody hell...”

She's not planning on giving him a full service here – because she has other plans – but she damn sure intends to take a sample. To start, she nudges his tip gently with her nose and places a kiss to it before licking a long languid stroke along his underside that has him groan. For a brief moment she enjoys to feel him twitch in her hand, then she closes her lips around him right below the head and slowly slides her lips down, sucking him all in. The feral noises she coaxes from him are not from this world, and the sounds send a bolt of lightning through her own body. She hollows her cheeks when she pulls back and darts right down again, taking him in even deeper. Killian can't stop his hips from bucking up in response, and she tones it down a bit, because for her own sake she doesn’t want to bring him too close too soon. She lightens the pressure of her lips a little and brushes her thumb gently over his balls. He relaxes a bit, and after repeating her ministrations a few more times, she releases him with a little pop, brushing another kiss on the tip. 

“Next time I'll have more,” she whispers raucously, “but now I need to feel you inside.”

“Take anything you want,” he rasps back, “I'm all yours.”

His eyes are fixed on her, veiled with desire and impatience, but he holds still and waits; only the way his right hand fists in the sheets betrays how much she has wrecked him already. Emma bites her bottom lip and smiles as she reaches into the top drawer of her nightstand and fetches another of the foiled packs, secretly praising herself for following her instinct last week and buying the condoms. She rips it open and looks down at his erection that slightly twitches with impatience under her scrutiny. She places the condom on his tip that's still glistening with moisture from her earlier attentions and rolls it slowly down to the base with a firm but tender grip, enjoying every inch. A sharp intake of breath from him and slight jerking of his hips are her reward, and without further ado she straddles him, steadying herself on his shoulders. He puts his hands on her thighs and slides them upwards until they rest on her waist, while Emma sinks slowly down on him with a drawn-out sigh. His fingers dig a little into her flesh at the sensation of being sheathed once more to the hilt in her tight, wet heat, and he looks up at her in complete adoration.

“You're bloody perfect, Emma,” he utters in a low and hoarse voice and pleads: “Come on, dance for me.” 

And Emma does. She circles her hips and sways elegantly above him, gliding back and forth on Killian's lap like a belly dancer. That way, she feels him everywhere inside, and it's glorious. A flex of her hips, and with every forward move her nub grinds against his pubic bone. She lets her head fall back and abandons herself to the erotic rhythm her body sets all by itself. Not long, and the soles of her feet start to tingle.

Killian watches her move, and it's breathtaking. She is hovering over him like a goddess, head thrown back, and her hands lightly resting on his thighs behind her. Her golden locks are tumbling down her back and tickle his legs while she continues her breathless dance in his lap, their sighs and moans providing the music. He's given up a bit of his complete passiveness, his hips gyrating now in response to her moves, matching them perfectly. He could continue like this for hours, except, he can't. The way she's moving, enjoying herself, the way she's grinding herself against him and the way she worshipped him before with her heavenly mouth – he's afraid he's probably not gonna make it much longer. Just when he thinks he can't last any longer, he can feel her moves picking up a little drive, her breath becoming more and more erratic.

“Emma, love,” he croaks and grips her waist a little tighter, “are you close?”

She sits upright again, never stopping the dance of her hips, and looks down at him, her face flushed and her forehead glistening with perspiration. She just smiles and nods, changing the direction of her moves from a horizontal sway to a vertical rise and fall when she starts – slowly at first, then picking up more and more speed – to ride him. Her hands come to his wrists, squeezing him tightly, and he gets immediately what she's demanding. His fingers are digging into her hips now, and he mirrors her moves, thrusting up forcefully into her when her body falls down on him. She uses her weight to raise the impact, and there's the sound of the banging headboard again. They work together perfectly, and this time Killian doesn't have to tell Emma to look at him – her eyes are wide open, and second before he feels her inner walls start to flutter and clench around him, he can see it in her eyes that she's about to shatter into a million pieces. That look in her eyes, that moment of crazed ecstasy, shooting lightnings of emerald fire at him, is what triggers his own orgasm, and his body lifts off the mattress when his hips stutter once, twice more against her while she's already collapsing atop of him.

They lie still for a moment, Emma splayed across his chest, her weight adding to his own sensation of breathlessness. He can feel her hair stick to the side of his throat, and her hands have fallen to his sides while his own are resting against her thighs. She doesn't seem to have any intention to move, and after a while he shifts a little underneath her when he's feeling himself grow soft inside her. She groans in protest. 

“I need to go to the bathroom for a moment,” he says, secretly enjoying her reluctance to let go, “or I'm gonna make a mess here.”

“Okay,” she huffs and reaches over to her nightstand, blindly fumbling for a box of kleenex she keeps there. She gets a few tissues and shoves them in his hand. “Here, take these,” she says and rolls off of him, causing him to slip out of her. “Stay.”

He averts his eyes for a moment and grins to himself, then he uses the tissues she's handed him to get rid of the condom and clean himself up a little before he drops the crumpled tissue ball to the floor beside the bed. He looks down at her fondly and sees her eyelids are already fluttering, obviously she's on the verge of falling asleep. Her face is still flushed, and she's easily the most beautiful creature he's ever seen. He slides down from his half-sitting position and settles under the sheets. Almost immediately, Emma shifts a little closer and laces her arm through his a little awkwardly, her nose brushing against his shoulder. It's like a déjà-vû of last Friday evening, when she snuggled against him on her couch in her drunken state. This time, she's definitely sober. 

“What's that, Swan?” he quips with fond amusement in his voice. “I thought you don't snuggle?”

Cocky bastard, she thinks, but not less fondly. “Yeah, well,” she murmurs peaceably instead of a fiery reply, “I guess that's the same as with the coffee on the first date.” She doesn't have to say it: all it took was meeting the right person, and with him, suddenly everything is different. Killian pulls his arm out of her grasp and lifts it invitingly, and she understands. With a smile, she slips into his embrace without further ado, and Emma Swan doesn't do half-hearted shit. So she throws her left leg over his and wraps her left arm across his abdomen, her wrist resting at his hipbone, her head tucked in nicely in the space between his jaw and his shoulder. She knows she should run... but it feels like this place is made for her, and again she makes the deliberate decision not to question this but just accept it – with pleasure.

Killian is in heaven when he feels her soften against him while she's drifting into dreamland. He reaches out to switch off the light and then just lies there for a while, grinning like an idiot into the darkness while he simply enjoys holding her in his arm. He runs his fingers up and down her back, painting lazy patterns on her skin, caressing the symmetric dimples at the base of her spine. With awe, he remembers what brought him here, what started all this, encouraged him to make his pass at her – her murmured words when she was drunk: I love you. Don't hurt me. 

He doesn't know if she remembers that at all or if perhaps she thinks it's been some weird kind of dream; of course he's never brought it up to her, but maybe one day, he will. But right now, when she seems to be asleep, he dares whispering it: “I'm not going to hurt you, Emma.” 

He places a soft kiss on the top of her head and freezes in shock at the same moment, because he feels her body stiffen suddenly. Bloody hell, she heard him. She knows he heard her drunken confession. Her walls... His mind is racing, but then he feels the muscles of her face flex against his throat and realizes it's the apple of her cheek curving into a smile. Her walls are staying right where they are: toppled over, crushed and buried. When Emma turns her head a little to the side and he feels her lips press briefly against his collarbone, he knows everything's alright. 

He must remember to thank Dave's perceptive arse for putting the burden of his drunk little sister on him.


	3. So This Is Christmas

On Christmas Eve Emma Swan is home alone like every year. She has her rituals, formed throughout years of solitude: hot eggnog, Chinese takeaway and Die Hard, the only Christmas movie she could ever stomach to watch. Every year since he found her, her brother David has been pestering her to join him and Mary Margaret on Christmas Eve, too, but as much as she loves them and as happy as she is to finally have found family, she always declined. She always spends Christmas Day with them (and that's wonderful!), and she just wants some time for herself – maybe she just wants to prove it to herself that she isn't depending on them, maybe she doesn't want to forget how it is to be alone... and maybe that makes her hold her family even more precious.

But even if it's by her own choice, there has always been that lurking feeling of loneliness, forlornness, a relic of her earlier years as an orphan. It's that kind of gloomy feeling that makes her pour an extra shot of whiskey in her eggnog and cheer extra loudly at every “motherfucker” uttered by a bloody and sweaty John McClane.

But this year is different. She's home alone, yes – but that lonely feeling, it's gone. She's alone, but it's okay, and it's not only because tomorrow she will be with David and Mary Margaret... this year, there's also someone else in her life, even if it's been only shortly that he barged in. This year, there is also Killian Jones.

Killian Jones, her co-worker and David's best friend, who has waltzed into her life about six months ago with his blue eyes, his sharp accent and his jawline for days. Too attractive not to get the hots for, too dangerous to let come close, so she held him at distance and convinced herself and everybody else that she hated him. Until, two mere weeks ago, the Christmas staff party at the office changed everything. She shot her lights out with tequila, and David – who also happens to be their employer – asked Killian as the only sober guy to see her safely home. Emma still isn't sure how or why all of that happened, but somehow that ended with Killian asking her out on a date for the following weekend, and it took but that week in between for her to fall hook, line and sinker for him. They went out for their first proper date on Friday night, and from that on, for most of the weekend they were inseparably glued together, literally. Actually, they didn't see a lot of daylight during those two days and nights; Emma still blushes when she thinks about it – and she likes to think about it, to recall every delicious moment of it.

She will see him on Christmas Day, as her sneaky brother David, secretly hoping for his little sister and his best friend to become an item even though it's against all odds, has invited him, too – without telling her about it. On Christmas Eve, though, Killian has other plans – he's spending it at a group home for orphaned boys where he spends a few hours every weekend. He seems to really care for those children – he calls them the lost boys – and Emma loves him even more for it.

Her head snaps up from her eggnog. Wait, did I just think that? I mean, it's obviously just a saying, but... she shakes her head and puts her cup down, feeling restless all of a sudden. She doesn't know yet what pushed him to get engaged in this social work at the orphanage; this is one of the things she still wants to learn about him, but it's one of the things that intrigue her a lot... it makes her feel a special connection, having grown up in the foster system herself – and she knows the bitter truth of how accurate it is to call those kids lost boys. She knows that it can mean everything to them if they find that someone outside their limited little world seems to be interested in them, and even if it's just for a few hours every week. 

She wonders what he's doing with them – is he baking cookies, putting up a Christmas tree, singing Christmas carols? She can picture him doing either of those things, he's just that talented and full of surprises. Emma chews on her bottom lip, suddenly overwhelmed by her longing to see him. She tells herself it's just curiosity, but the truth is, she's missing him. It might be ridiculous, but... before she can change her mind, she throws back the cozy blanket she's been snuggling under. While she's putting on her boots, John McClane yells through a smashed window to a shocked cop on her TV screen: “Welcome to the party, pal!”

Emma grabs her purse and switches the TV off. “Sorry, Bruce,” she murmurs. “Next year, maybe.”

From last weekend she remembers where the orphanage is situated; after a lazy Sunday morning in bed full of snuggling and passion and a long walk in the snow, she dropped him off at the group home – reluctantly, but secretly pleased and proud of him that he had no intention to neglect the engagement he'd taken with those kids just because now he met her. So, she parks her old yellow bug in front of the house – it looks old but well-kept – and boldly walks up to the entrance door. There's a warm yellow light falling through the huge windows on the snow-covered sidewalk; she tries to catch a glimpse of what's inside, but the curtains are closed, and suddenly she feels stupid... knocking suddenly seems stupid. What is she even doing here? She can't just walk in there and disturb whatever celebration they're having, not without looking completely idiotic, and maybe Killian wouldn't even be okay with it. It's quite intrusive, in fact. 

Emma stops dead in her tracks and hesitates for a moment, looking longingly at the massive wooden entrance door, before she shakes her head at herself and turns around, slowly walking back to her car.

She hears a sound behind her, and before she can define it as the sound of an opening door and muffled voices tumbling out, she hears her name called by the voice she's not ashamed to admit she'd recognize in a million. “Emma?”

She stops, but doesn't turn around immediately. He doesn't sound annoyed, but she's nervous all the same about the expression she will find on his face. What if he... oh, screw it, she thinks. Enough with the worrying. Slowly, she turns around to face him and finds a soft, surprised, yet pleased smile on his handsome face. God, she hasn't seen him in two days – the office is closed for the whole Christmas week – and she already feels a longing tugging at her heart with a might she didn't expect. He motions his hand between them. “Were you looking for me?” Killian asks – eagerly, she notices; and she also notices that the door behind him is open and a few curious faces are peeking out.

“Well, I was just...” she doesn't know what to say and stumbles over her own words as she gestures a little erratically with both hands, “well, I guess, curious, and... sorry, I didn't mean to...”

He walks up to her. “Would you like to come in?” he calmly interrupts her stammering, a heart-stopping smile soothing her nervousness as he reaches for her left hand with his right and adds: “Please?”

What else can she do but oblige to his sweet request? Emma averts her eyes for a second and presses her lips together in a shy smile, her now cold fingers curling around his. “Okay,” she murmurs and delights in the way his face lights up even more as he pulls her with him towards the open door without further preliminary. The curious children disappear like quicksilver, leaving a trail of their tiny giggles behind.

She draws a deep breath and lets him take the lead, her knees feeling a little weak momentarily when she enters the house and is immediately hit by the smell that catapults her right back into her childhood. It's a strange mix of shoes, stale food vapor, curd soap and lavender. For the tiniest moment she hesitates and tightens her hold on his fingers which has him throw her a questioning look. He doesn't have to ask if she's okay; she knows he's perceptive enough to check on her. They haven't talked about their pasts in detail, but she's told him that she spent the better part of her youth in the foster system. The slightly worried expression in his eyes warms her heart, and she smiles and nods, finally following him into the depths of the house with determined steps.

They cross a short, dimly-lit corridor and enter a spacious hall/living room that is furnished with old-fashioned, heavy armchairs and leather sofas, a checkered rug and tables made of dark old wood. There's also a fireplace like from another world, and the whole setting looks ridiculously clichéd, reminding her of the common rooms in the Harry Potter movies. A slightly crooked Christmas tree is set up, decorated with electric candles and glass baubles, and most of the upholstered furniture is empty, she notices with surprise. A second later she realizes why: the vast space in front of the fire place is crammed with boys; their ages range from maybe four to thirteen, Emma guesses; a few teens are snuggling into threadbare but nevertheless cozy looking armchairs. All in all, she reckons, there are maybe twenty-five kids in there plus two female care-workers; the latter greet her with a warm smile and a nod which she returns. All kids' eyes are on her, the warm, Christmas-scented air buzzing with curious murmur and barely suppressed giggles as she follows Killian when he enters the room, any earlier reluctance almost completely gone. He pulls her gently to his side so that she can no longer half-hide behind him and clears his throat.

“Boys,” his warm baritone fills the room, “we're having an unexpected visitor. This is Emma.” He throws a quick glance and a reassuring smile her way and squeezes her fingers. “She's my friend and would like to join us if that's alright with you.”

A string of warmth tugs at her heart at his words, and she marvels once more at his sensitivity: even though he is obviously happy – elated even – to see her, he doesn't forget that his top priority in this moment must be these orphans. It's their home, probably the only home most of them know, and it's their right to grant or deny permission for her to stay.

One of the smaller boys, he's maybe five or six, tilts his head and scrutinizes her closely. “Are you his girlfriend?” he emphasizes, and a few of the other boys giggle.

“Roland!” one of the care-workers scolds, and Killian throws her another quick glance, obviously a little nervous this time. Emma knows he isn't uncomfortable with the boy's insinuation by itself, but more worried what effect it could have on her, because... they are dating, yes; they are having amazing sex, oh yes; they are slowly – fast enough, to be honest – forming a relationship, but putting a name on it could be... too much, too early. Or, at least, that's what he's afraid of that she might be afraid of.

He uses his free hand to scratch behind his ear. “Well, we...”

But Emma shuts him up with a determined squeeze at his fingers and a reassuring smile of her own now. Then she raises her chin and looks directly at the curious faces. “Yes, I am,”she replies firmly, and a pair of adorable dimples appear on the boy's cheeks.

“Cool,” is his verdict, “you can stay.” Then – simple fact accepted – he slumps down into his sitting position again and adds: “But you need to be quiet. Killian is reading.”

Emma turns her head to Killian – her boyfriend – again and sees that adorable dimples have appeared on his cheeks, too, and the tips of his ears have turned slightly pink. “I will,” she promises and lets go of his hand, shooing him in the direction of the waiting boys and retreating to an armchair at the side of the room. He beams and nods, finding his way into the middle of the boys and plopping down on the slightly threadbare rug while she snuggles into the chair. Someone hands him a book, and he opens it and picks up where he's obviously left off, immediately immersing into the story again. It's Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and just why is she not surprised at all?

Emma enjoys how nobody's paying attention to her anymore – it's simply a pleasure to watch how the boys are immediately quiet and focusing on Killian to 100%. The tale might seem old-fashioned, but basically it's timeless, and the 21st century teens don't seem to mind the outdated language at all. Needless to say, this tale appears to be written for the only purpose of being recited by Killian Jones in his smooth voice with this enticing accent. She blinds out the words and just lets the velvety sound of his voice wash over her in gentle cascades, envelop her like a cozy blanket and warm her up, while she watches his enraptured audience. They are completely enthralled, the emotions created by the story mirrored on their faces. Some of them – the younger ones – hang onto Killian's lips with unveiled admiration and affection, the older ones display affection, too, but there's also that profound melancholy lying underneath she remembers so painfully from her own childhood and youth. Clearly, Killian's presence here at Christmas Eve is a highlight for them, and Emma can only begin to imagine what it means to them that he visits them regularly.

He has almost finished reading, and Emma concentrates on the words again as she waits for her favorite part: “His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him...” She has asked herself for a long time what it would feel like when her own heart laughs, but now slowly she's beginning to understand.

Killian closes the book after the finishing words, and the boys immediately start to ask him questions or simply express their love for the story of redemption and hope they just heard. Emma smiles to herself and marvels once more at how well he does with these damaged children, when a young voice makes her jump a little: “So, you're the one.”

Her head snaps around and she sees that one of the older boys – about fifteen maybe, unruly blond hair and a stern look on his face – has approached her quietly and stands beside her chair, arms folded in a somewhat standoffish way. He does not smile.

“The... one?” she echoes in confusion.

“To take him away.” He motions his head towards Killian who is still concentrated on talking to the boys.

Emma frowns. “Who, Killian? Why would I take him away?”

The boy shrugs. “Not the first time that happens,” he replies flatly. “People, they come here to spend time with us... like he does.” He shrugs again, and something in his forlorn gesture touches a nerve deep inside her. “Until they find something better,” he continues and fixes his stare on her pointedly, a hurt hostility in his too old eyes. “And then they stop visiting.” Emma presses her lips together to hide how deeply the boys' words affect her, because it's like she hears her own fifteen year old self. “The smaller kids are attached to him.” He motions to Killian again, the move of his head abrupt, and Emma's eyes don't leave his face; she knows, she just knows what he's going to say next. “I'm not,” he goes on almost defiantly, and she knows he's lying, “I'm old enough to know better. But the others... they will suffer.”

She swallows the lump in her throat. “I know how you feel,” she murmurs.

“You know nothing,” the boy snaps angrily, his fists clenching at his sides, and slowly turns around to walk away.

“Sometimes they take you with them,” Emma says quietly, and the boy whirls around to her, rooted to the spot. “And you think... you hope this is it. You think they really care about you... and in the beginning, they probably do.” Her gaze gets lost somewhere in the past. “And then something happens... a job offer in Tokyo, a divorce... a pregnancy.” She turns her eyes to the boy again, back from her momentary trip to her own, painful youth. “Or they simply realize they don't want to deal with an obnoxious teenager that isn't even their own.”

The boy blinks. “You?” he just asks after a few moments, a lost boy talking to a lost girl.

“Four foster families,” Emma replies. “Left the system at eighteen.”

“And then?” All hostility is gone, replaced by genuine interest. 

She shrugs. “Managed to stay out of trouble, found a decent job...” She presses her lips together and nods gravely before she adds: “Kept people out.”

The boy smiles feebly. “Until you met him?” 

“Killian?” Emma's eyes follow the movement the boy makes with his head. “Oh no, we got close only recently. But after a few years of being all on my own, a miracle happened.”

He frowns questioningly. “A miracle?”

She smiles. “I found out I had a brother. Well, half-brother, that is. He'd learned about me only shortly ago and did everything to find me.”

The boy swallows and nods. “That's great, that you found each other.” He looks down and shuffles his feet. “Well, I think it's not very likely something like that's gonna happen for me.”

Emma's heart clenches at the hopelessness in his voice. “Maybe not,” she admits. “But it shows that... that good things can happen to people like us, too.” He quirks her a skeptical eyebrow, and she nods firmly. “That we can find people who care about us, blood-related or not.”

Before he can reply, one of the little boys comes running up to them and tugs at the teenager's sleeve. “Felix! Come and help me get some hot chocolate?” he hops up and down excitedly.

The boy – Felix – rolls his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh, but moves to follow the smaller child in the direction of the kitchen, probably. “You want some?” he asks almost grumpily over his shoulder.

Emma smiles and nods. “Cinnamon on top if you have.” 

She watches the two boys walk away, and when she turns around again, Killian is standing in front of her armchair, head tilted, eyebrow raised in question. “Did you just talk to Felix?”

She shrugs nonchalantly. “We chatted a little.”

“You chatted.” He runs his hand through his hair. “Are you serious? Normally, he doesn't talk to anybody from the outside. Hell, he barely talks to me.”

Emma slaps his thigh with the back of her hand. “That's because he likes you.”

He tilts his head and just looks at her with his lips slightly parted, pondering over her words. Then a soft smile curves his mouth; sure... Felix is not just the average angry teenager, he's a lost boy in the truest sense of the word, and it takes one to recognize one. He reaches out and tenderly tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Right,” he murmurs, “I should have recognized the signs.”

She presses her lips into a sweet smile, and for moment neither of them speaks while they both think of Emma's former, so very similar defense mechanisms. After a few moments the silence is interrupted by a scratchy sound when someone clears his throat. Both their heads turn around to find Felix stand there with a steaming mug in his hand, shuffling his feet awkwardly.

“You about to leave?” he asks, his question not directed at one of them specifically. The disappointment on his face is obvious.

Emma grins. “No, I'm waiting for my hot chocolate, knucklehead.” She points to the mug he's holding, and his grumpy face lights up. For a moment he looks not a day older than the fifteen year old boy that he is.

“Oh... right. Here.” He hands her the mug and returns her grin a little sheepishly before looking at Killian for the first time. “Uh... hi.” 

“Hi, Felix.” Killian smiles.

“Nice read, that,” Felix murmurs and shoves his hands deeply in the pockets of his jeans. 

Killian tilts his head once in a nod. “Thanks,” he replies almost solemnly.

The smaller boy who dragged the teenager into the kitchen before tugs at his sleeve again. “Let's go to the others, Felix,” he urges, “come onnnnnn!”

The blonde boy rolls his eyes again, but in a good-humored way indicating that he isn't really annoyed. Before he follows the small boy's pull, he looks at Killian again, briefly motioning his head towards Emma. “She's good,” he murmurs furtively. “Don't mess up.”

Killian's glance flies to Emma, and his heart goes out to her when he sees the quiet fondness in her eyes while she's fixing them on Felix. “Not planning to, lad,” he assures, a promise meant for both the lost boy and the lost girl to hear, and he plans to keep it.

When they leave, it's pretty late. Killian leads the way, carefully testing the snow-covered sidewalk and holding Emma firmly by the hand, to which she smiles to herself. She's almost thirty years old, and she has managed so far to walk slippery sidewalks all by herself without breaking a leg... but that's just how he is, always a gentleman, and she admits to herself that it's a good feeling to have someone look after her, even if it's just in the small things. He stops by her bug, and just now she notices that his own car is parked right behind hers. She turns around, her free hand automatically reaching for his. Their stares lock, and she's dying to kiss him; he feels the same, if the dark cobalt of his eyes is any indication, but he doesn't make a move, and over his shoulder Emma sees the curtains of the orphanage move when the curious boys are shuffling behind them, observing their departure. Of course. 

"Thank you for coming," he says, and when she raises her eyebrows in question, he adds: "and for staying." He doesn't need to explain how much it means to him, because he can see that she knows it already by the way she licks her lips and averts her eyes for a moment. He's dying to kiss her, but it will have to wait until tomorrow when they'll meet again, when they won't be under the observation of the lost boys' prying eyes. For now, it's enough for him to know that she's longing for him, too – her quick glance at his lips when she turned around and took his hand gave her away.

Killian draws a deep breath, not yet ready to let go but also aware that he can't prolong the moment any longer and has to tell her good night, but before he can open his mouth to do so, she blurts out: "Do you wanna have some eggnog with Irish whiskey?"

Delighted at her reluctance to end their encounter just like that, but not yet fully realizing what she's aiming at, he replies: "That sounds quite dreamy, Swan, but where could we find such delicacy at 11 pm on Christmas Eve?" He tilts his head, pursing his lips into a tentative, yet playful smile, not really daring to believe she means what he hopes she means.

Emma licks her lips a little nervously and hesitates for a split second, as if she's scared of her own courage, and that moment tells him everything he needs to know even before she says it: “At my place.” She blushes a little, and he loves her even more for that. He can clearly see that she's not used to that, not used to making herself vulnerable by going out on a limb like that, risking rejection, and yet she does. She must have great trust in him, and that fills him with awe.

He brushes his thumbs across her knuckles. “I thought you'd never ask,” he replies in a low voice, and her eyes sparkle when she lets go of his hands without another word so she can fish for her car keys in her purse.

Twenty minutes later, they are snuggled up on Emma's couch, both a glass of eggnog in their hands, and Killian can't help thinking back to the first time they were like this – well, actually not like this; it was more a half-asleep Emma snuggling up to his grumpy self in her drunken stupor. Now they are both very awake and aware of the other's nearness, basking in the warmth they create together. She has tucked her head under his chin and hums contentedly while his free hand is playing with her hair, fingertips gently caressing her scalp.

“So, what are your plans for tomorrow?” he asks after a while of tender silence. “For going to Dave's, I mean.”

“Oh!” She moves so abruptly that he almost spills his beverage. “I have it all figured out!” she tells him in an excited voice, “listen!” He smiles at the girlish sparkle in her eyes as she puts down her glass on the coffee table. “We'll go there separately, I'll go first.”

“Okay,” he replies and swallows, trying to fight back his disappointment. She told him she wouldn't mind revealing their relationship, but obviously she's changed her mind. Calm down, he tells himself, she just needs a little more time. Yes, she said she's your girlfriend, but this is different. The lost boys are strangers to her, Dave and Mary Margaret are her family.

“I'll act like I'm absolutely pissed off that he invited you,” she goes on, hands vividly gesticulating and her eyes full of mischief, and he manages to purse his lips into a feeble smile. “We'll let them stir in their own juices before we drop the bomb,” she finishes, her voice coated with self-satisfaction, and looks at him expectantly. “How's that sound?”

He frowns in confusion. “Drop the bomb?” he echoes. He feels a little prickle at the base of his neck and unconsciously holds his breath.

“Sure.” In a swift move, she throws a leg across his lap and and straddles him, making him gasp in surprise. He looks at her dumbstruck as she takes the glass from his hand and puts it on the table, too. Then she links her hands at the back of his neck and smiles tentatively, the hint of a blush on her cheeks. 

Encouraged, he lightly rests his hands on her hips. “Which bomb?” he wants to know. There's a little teasing in his voice, but his heart also skips a beat as he waits for her response. 

Her blush turns into an ever deeper shade of pink, and her voice is a little hushed when she replies: “That you're my boyfriend.”

Killian doesn't really try to stop the bright grin from blooming all over his face, and she doesn't wait for an answer – because there isn't even one needed – before she leans forward to kiss him. It's not more than a soft brush of her lips on his, but her mouth lingers there as she encourages him to respond. He presses his fingertips lightly into the swell of her hips and follows the gentle pull of her hands. Emma sighs against his mouth and lets her body softly, heavily sink against him while she deepens the kiss, combing her fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His hands glide to her back and under her sweater, enjoying the feeling of her warm silky skin against his palms while they wander along the elegant curve of her spine and finally come to rest on her shoulder blades. They sway back and forth, hips gently rocking, fingers finding and exposing skin, lips caressing and teasing, smiling and whispering, and soon they are lost in themselves and the sensations: the passion rolling through their veins, the quiet shivers tingling beneath their skin, almost like magic, and the warmth enveloping them. 

Later, when they make it to the bed, they walk blindly, unable to keep their hands and mouths off each other, every broken contact feeling like a loss. They make love gently and slowly, and when they find their way into each other's arms before drifting into dreamland, Emma's eyes catch a glimpse of the alarm clock on her nightstand, and the digital numbers show it's just past midnight. 

She smiles into the dark and tightens her hold on Killian's naked waist as she whispers: “Merry Christmas.”

***  
Emma presses her lips together to hide her grin and tries to rein in her elation. She doesn't want her brother or his wife suspect something too soon; she wants to have her fun with them first. Oh, she knows now, of course, that David has been right all along when he kept telling her for the past six months that his best friend Killian Jones is actually a nice guy and why wouldn't she just be a little friendlier to him? Eventually, he gave up, but seemed to fall slightly back into that mode again after that evening when he sent Killian to take her safely home after the staff Christmas party. He always meant well, but his meddlesomeness needs to be punished.

“Emma!” he pulls her into a brotherly bear hug and right into the cozy house. “Merry Christmas, little sister!” He takes her coat and laughs at her annoyed huffs. Mary Margaret appears right behind him and hugs Emma as well.

“Merry Christmas, honey,” she greets her warmly as she kisses her on both cheeks. “Come in and have some eggnog.”

Emma grins to herself as she finds herself – again – with a glass of eggnog in her hand and shoved into the living room where there's a big fire cackling in the fireplace. “The roast still needs another twenty minutes maybe,” Mary Margaret announces and asks – like every year – with worried fondness in her voice (also like every year): “Why didn't you come over yesterday? You know I hate the thought...”

“Of me spending Christmas Eve alone,” Emma interrupts her petite dark-haired sister-in-law, “I know, and I appreciate it. But you know I like it that way.” Ignoring Mary Margaret's doubtful headshake, she adds: “I like a bit of me-time, because I know on Christmas Day I will be with my family.”

Emma waits for it with secret glee, and there it is: Mary Margaret throws a slightly nervous sideways glance at David. “Ah yeah, about that...”

“Right,” he jumps in immediately, obviously determined to get it over with as quickly as possible. “I forgot to mention that we'll have a guest.”

Emma raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “A guest?” she echoes. “Who?”

He exchanges another glance with Mary Margaret who shuffles her feet a little awkwardly and then tells her in a casual voice: “Killian.” His nonchalance does sound a little forced, Emma notices with satisfaction. Serves him right.

Time to play. “What?!” she exclaims in feigned horror.

Her brother tries to soothe. “It's his first Christmas here in Boston, without any family...”

“Really?!” she cuts him off and rolls her eyes. “Doesn't he have friends?”

“I'm his friend, Emma,” he replies firmly.

She shoots him a furious stare. “Damn, David, Jones of all people?!” she hisses and can barely hide her amusement. “You know I can't stand his likes!”

Now David rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Don't be hostile today, it's Christmas,” he scolds. “And he was nice enough to you the night of the party.”

She snorts. “Don't remind me!”

“I thought you were getting along better since then,” Mary Margaret sighs.

“Fine!” Emma throws her hands in the air dramatically. “Let's spend Christmas Day with Killian Jones, why the hell not, I guess I've had worse Christmases.” David cringes, obviously feeling a little guilty now, and Emma decides to cool it for the moment. “Okay, just so you know,” she announces a little more calmly, “if he pisses me off, I'll just leave. It's already enough that I have to endure him at work.”

David sighs and as if on cue, the doorbell rings. “Speaking of the Devil,” Emma murmurs and raises her hands when David throws her a reprimanding glance. “Alright, alright. I'll behave.”

Mary Margaret is already at the door to answer it, and Emma looks down into her eggnog, biting her lip to keep herself from grinning. She can't help the butterflies dancing in her stomach at the sound of Killian's smooth baritone wafting in from the hall where he greets Mary Margaret.

Her brother sends a last, almost pleading look her way before he walks into the hall to welcome his friend. Emma stays put on her chair and tries to contain her eager anticipation, shaking her head at herself for feeling stupidly elated like a teenager, because in less than a minute she will see him again – not that she has just said goodbye to him two hours earlier, when he left her to go to his place for a change of clothes.

“Emma,” David addresses her a little sheepishly, and she turns around. “Say hi to our guest.”

And there he is, changed into a checkered shirt in navy blue, grey and white over an anthracite-colored henley with the first two buttons open, of course, and it strikes her again just how handsome he is. Blue eyes sparkling and dimples in his scruffy cheeks as he smiles at her. She has to avert her eyes for a moment when she remembers where this scruff bruised her last night, but then she plasters her slightly annoyed mask back on and rises slowly from her chair.

“Jones,” she greets him coolly as he saunters nearer.

“Swan,” he replies in a slightly cocky voice, tilting his head, and extends his hand, “merry Christmas.”

“So I've been told,” she answers pointedly and, after a look at David's stern face, adds: “Same to you.” She takes his hand, and as they shake, Killian brushes the pad of his thumb over the heel of her hand, sending shivers up her arm. Her eyes widen traitorously for a second, but David doesn't notice any of it; partly, because he's standing behind Killian and their hands are hidden by Killian's body, partly because he's busy rolling his eyes, starting to get a little exasperated at his sister's snarkiness.

“Play nice, kids” he growls before he heads for the kitchen to assist Mary Margaret.

“Perhaps later,” Killian murmurs in a voice so low that only Emma can hear him and briefly caresses her palm with his thumb before releasing her hand. She barely manages to suppress a giggle.

“Stop that,” she hisses, “or you'll ruin the surprise!”

“Now we wouldn't want that, love,” he replies quietly and runs his tongue lightly across the inside of his cheek; Emma can see it move behind his teeth. She bites her lip and tries to will back the upcoming blush, grateful when David and Mary Margaret come in carrying plates and pots. She suspects it will be harder than she thought to keep a straight face.

The conversation starts out a little awkwardly with David and Mary Margaret not wanting to come off as too pushy (and also feeling a little guilty for not telling Emma that they invited Killian); Emma and Killian, however, are quite busy pretending they are their usual grumpy selves when it comes to each other.

“Did you talk to your brother?” Mary Margaret asks him out of the blue.

“Called him earlier today,” he replies and nods.

“Too bad he couldn't come,” David comments, and Killian tilts his dark head in a slightly melancholic gesture.

“Their flights were already booked, but then his wife was forbidden to travel. Pregnancy complications,” he adds vaguely, and Emma's eyes turn curiously to him. She knows that he has a brother in England who is also married, but other than that they haven't talked much about their respective family bonds.

“I hope she's okay,” she says quickly to which Killian responds with a slight smile.

“Oh yes, as long as she doesn't travel she's fine.” He tilts his head again. “They had to cancel in the last moment, and it was too late for me to get a flight myself.”

“Sorry about that,” David says sympathetically, “I know you miss your brother.” Emma's gaze is getting more and more curious by the minute. She knows there is so much more of Killian to discover and she's eager for it; this seems like a good occasion.

“Aye, we're close,” Killian admits, “it's always been just the two of us, for almost as long as I can think back.”

Emma's ears prick up at that statement; that sounds an awful lot like he was orphaned, which hits her completely by surprise. “What about your parents?” she blurts out, forgetting to keep up her mask and the game for her brother.

Killian looks at her calmly. “We lost them early,” is all the explanation he offers, but for Emma it's enough to understand, to understand his fondness for the lost boys. Because he was the same, at one point of his life – just like her. Thinking back at her own forlornness that overshadowed her childhood, youth and early adult life, she's happy for him that he had at least his brother. “I was lucky to have Liam,” he goes on, as if he's reading her thoughts, and in an attempt to lighten the seriousness of the moment, quickly adds, “even if he got on my nerves some times.”

“Yeah, big brothers can be a pain in the ass,” Emma throws in, taking up the thread, and while Mary Margaret breathes out a quiet little laugh, David huffs.

“I knew you had something in common,” he deadpans in his sister's direction, and Killian chuckles, the moment relieved. While David and his wife exchange speculative glances, Emma's eyes linger on Killian's, and a little genuine smile crinkles the skin around his eyes and tugs just-so at the corners of his mouth, signalizing her that he's okay. Her fingers itch to reach for his hand and squeeze his fingers, but just then she remembers that they have still a mission to accomplish.

“Not really,” she replies curtly, and David's shoulders slump the tiniest bit in resignation.

Killian watches her secretly throughout the meal when he thinks that nobody is looking; whenever his eyes catch hers, he's delighted to see the glee she can barely hold back sparking in her eyes. As far as he can see, she's totally at ease with the situation, and that elates him. Despite Emma's asseverations about not wanting to waste any more time and being okay with revealing their new relationship to her brother and sister-in-law, part of him still secretly worried that she might be afraid of her own courage in the end. But it looks like she's bloody enjoying herself, and the looks she throws him when she thinks that nobody is looking are full of warmth, affection and promises. So, he doesn't worry or ask himself if and when she will unravel the charade; he just trusts that she will and is ready to follow her lead.

When they have finished what was a relatively quiet meal, they all get up from the table to carry the plates and remnants of the food into the kitchen. As they are about to return to the living room, Killian almost runs into Emma when she suddenly stops underneath the frame of the large slide door that separates the living room from the hall.

“Swan?” he asks when she turns around to face him, and his lips automatically curve into a smile when he sees the girlish mischief glittering in her eyes, although he has no idea yet what's behind it. She doesn't reply but motions her head at a point above her, and when his eyes follow her move he notices the spring of mistletoe hanging there. He looks at her questioningly, and she nods, challenging his creativity. 

In the kitchen, David rummages in the fridge for the dessert and murmurs with a little frustration in his voice: “This is not going too well.” When he gets only a low thoughtful hum from Mary Margaret in response, he turns around to his wife, just to see her sway her head from right to left in a questioning move. “What?” he asks, frowning.

“The day's not over yet,” she replies vaguely.

“So? You mean she has still time to kill him?” he snorts.

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “There's something going on,” she insists, but her husband just rolls his eyes as he loads himself with two plates of tiramisu while she takes the other two.

“I'm afraid not,” he contradicts as they exit the kitchen. “Just because they haven't been at each other's throats...” He interrupts himself when he sees both his sister and his best friend unexpectedly standing in the hall. David hopes they haven't overheard any of his conversation with Mary Margaret, but obviously they're having a conversation of their own, and the stern look on Emma's face lets his heart sink a little more. He probably just better should accept that the two people he loves the most – after Mary Margaret, of course – will never get along well, let alone become friends or anything beyond that. 

“What do you say, Swan,” Killian drawls in his accented voice, “should we celebrate our seasonal truce with one of the more pleasurable Christmas traditions?” He points to the mistletoe right above Emma's head, and David groans internally about that stupid move from his friend.

“Please,” Emma huffs disdainfully, “I'm not one of the giggling secretaries you like to entertain.”

David looks at Mary Margaret who is following right behind him, but she's busy watching the scene before them, eyes a little narrowed.

“Oh, come on,” Killian chuckles, “why are you so uptight – maybe you should have a few shots of tequila to make you more sociable.” 

David rolls his eyes, not understanding why his best friend is fueling the flames that are already sparking in Emma's green eyes. Well, great. That's not exactly something he'd like to watch on Christmas Day. He clears his throat, but neither of the two opponents are paying him any attention. 

Emma puts her hands to her hips. “Low shot,” she snaps, “just as I expected from your likes, Jones. Is that all you can come up with?”

David decides to intervene before blood is drawn. “Whoa, guys...” 

Nobody is listening to him, and then everything happens very quickly. Killian takes one step forward and fires back: “Oh, you shall see!” Then he suddenly reaches out and grabs Emma by the waist, yanking her against him with a quick move and then, in a fucking spin, he dips her a little and crushes his lips to hers. David hears Mary Margaret gasp behind him, and he's expecting Emma to scream like a banshee any moment now, kneeing Killian in the groin or scratching his pretty eyes out. He's a little startled though when that doesn't happen – but probably Emma is just taken by surprise as much as he is. And then his whole world turns upside down as he watches her arms wrap around Killian's neck and her back arch as she pushes herself into him and – kisses him back just as fervently as she receives from him.

David's jaw drops, and he turns around to Mary Margaret who tilts her head in close scrutiny of that passionate scene in front of her eyes. For a few moments that seem like an eternity, it's completely quiet except for the heavy breathing coming from the two engaged in their passionate lip lock and a sound from Emma that sounds an awful lot like a sigh. Then, slowly, they come back from their kiss and their lips part whereas the rest of them remains joint somehow – Killian's arms still wrapped around Emma's waist, her hands resting against his chest, and it looks all very close and intimate, as if they haven't done this for the first time. But the most striking thing is how they both are obviously still lost in their own world – their foreheads resting against each other, and their eyes holding on to each other as they share the air between them and an enraptured smile.

"Emma?" David finally manages, and it's fascinating to see how much effort it obviously costs her to pry her eyes from Killian's face.

She slowly turns to face David, and he's amazed to see her smile – it's not a wide smile from ear to ear, on the contrary it's very subtle and rather small, but it comes from within and makes her look radiant. He's never seen his little sister smile like this. Her left arm wraps around Killian's waist, and her face is a little flushed (which is no surprise really) when she smiles at him and says brightly: “Surprise!”

He puts down the two plates on the next flat surface which is a fragile looking little sideboard and gesticulates towards Emma and Killian in confusion. “What does that mean?” he asks, his voice a little exasperated.

She presses her lips together in a smile. “I wasn't completely honest with you,” she admits and touches her cheek slightly to Killian's shoulder. “Truth is, Killian was nice to me the night of the party.”

“What?!” David barks, and Emma's brow furrows in question. He takes two menacing steps in Killian's direction and snarls: “I entrust you with my sister's safety, and you...”

Killian gasps. “Whoa, mate, I'd never...”

“Not like that!” Emma interrupts hastily and raises her hand, stepping in front of Killian. “I meant nice as in really nice – sweet, caring and a gentleman.”

David is utterly taken aback by the surprise. “Are you saying you are... dating?” he inquires, his voice coated with disbelief. He turns to Mary Margaret who puts down her two plates, too. “They are dating?!” he repeats in a clueless voice, as if he doesn't know what to do with the information.

His wife smiles, obviously handling the news much better than he does. “Isn't that what you wanted?” she asks back.

“Well, I...” David turns to Emma and Killian again. “I didn't want them to do it secretly!” His voice sounds hilariously reproachful.

Killian speaks up for the first time, feeling a bit guilty for playing the little charade on his best friend, and also not wanting him to be annoyed with Emma. “Look, mate, we just thought...”

“I thought,” Emma interrupts firmly, throwing him a quick sideways smile, “that you needed a little punishment for being so... meddlesome.”

David remains silent for a few moments, his eyes darting to and fro between his little sister and his best friend. Part of him is still slightly miffed for being kept in the dark about the blossoming relationship, but then he sees something on Emma's face he hasn't seen in a long, long time; it's been so long he barely recognizes it, but then he realizes that she's simply happy. His sister, his lost little girl who, even though she eagerly slipped into her place in his family and his life when he found her, has always seemed to be on the run from something, or maybe on the search for something he wasn't able to give. His gaze wanders to Killian, and when he sees the way his friend looks down at Emma, he's completely sold.

Finally, he starts to smile and takes one step forward, his arms outstretched, and Emma leaves Killian's side and steps right into David's embrace, hugging him firmly. Mary Margaret watches with glittering eyes. “You could have picked worse, little sister,” he murmurs, and Emma presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you for being so meddlesome,” she murmurs into his ear. He chuckles and releases her into Mary Margaret's waiting arms before turning to Killian who is scratching behind his ear a little sheepishly.

“Mate, I...”

“You sneaky bastard!” David cuts him off by punching his shoulder a little roughly before pulling him into a back-slapping hug. “Told you she likes you,” he tells Killian and punches him again, making him wince in protest. “Hurt her, and I'll kill you,” he adds matter-of-factly.

“David!” Mary Margaret scolds and Emma rolls her eyes, but Killian isn't offended at all.

“That's a perfectly fair agreement,” he says, and everybody laughs. 

They finally take their dessert plates into the living room and settle at the table again, the atmosphere light and joyful and without any awkwardness. Emma participates at the conversation most of the time, but there are also moments when she simply takes one step back and her mind just goes adrift, not listening to the words that are spoken and the anecdotes that are told. In those moments, she just soaks up the warmth and the feeling of being part of something, of belonging. Her brother easing her boyfriend – her boyfriend! – and Killian squeezing her fingers not under the table, but visible for everyone, and all of that feels just right.

So, this is Emma Swan's Christmas. It's pretty darn perfect.


End file.
